


The Northman's Daughter

by kimberlite8



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Emotional, F/M, Feminist Themes, First Love, Future Fic, Happy Ending, Romance, Sisters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-07
Updated: 2015-02-07
Packaged: 2017-10-31 06:40:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 69,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/341090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kimberlite8/pseuds/kimberlite8
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Sansa and Sandor epilogue to the end of the series A Song of Ice and Fire. Their future lives lay before them but will Sansa and Sandor accept their fate?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: All characters below to George R.R. Martin.
> 
> This story was originally written for a comment fic contest in the Sansa x Sandor livejournal community. The prompt was "People need touch (skin-on-skin contact) for their psychological well-being. Sandor's never had a lot of that, but now he's in Sansa's service, she touches him all the time . . ." The story morphed into my epilogue of the Sansa/Sandor relationship in a future time near the end of "A Dream of Spring."
> 
> Thank you to the wonderful[ ruebella b ](http://ruebella-b.tumblr.com/)for the gift of the cover illustration. Its sweet sensuality captures the spirit of this story and I am forever humbled and grateful that my words could inspire such beauty.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Sandor**

On the outskirts of Winterfell Sandor fought the abomination that had been his brother. Their swords kissed and sprang apart and kissed again. Ser Robert Strong's strength was inhuman but Sandor pressed the attack with a speed and skill that he had never possessed before, inflamed by the knowledge that it was not just his life, but also the Little Bird's that was at stake should he fail. Sandor could not have said how long they fought, it might have been minutes or it might have been hours; time slept when swords woke. This was _destiny_ and it seemed to him that he was merely a man who was somehow brought forth by the hour itself; his entire life had been but a preparation for their fraternal combat. At the end, Ser Robert Strong lay slain not by Sandor's fatal blow but Sansa's. She stood before him, her beautiful tear-stained face smiling at him with all the love and compassion of the Mother Above. His pain had grown sharp, near unbearable, but he was mad with joy. As he sank to his knees, he heard himself bark with laughter. And then he felt nothing but the cold as he fell face first into the snow.

When he opened his eyes again, he was in his own bed at Winterfill. Every nerve in his body sang in pain. But as he turned his head to face the light at the window he saw the Little Bird asleep in a chair beside him, and he exulted in the exquisite pain and pleasure of being alive.

* * *

The maester said that Sandor had sustained grievous injuries and that his recuperation would be long and arduous. The months that followed were the most physically taxing of his entire life. Throughout it all, the Little Bird was there to nurture him. She was the best nursemaid he could have wished for; she fed him when he could not feed himself, shaved and combed him, soothed his muscles when they spasm painfully.

No woman had touched him in tenderness in his adult memory before Sansa. Of course, he had spent his lusts with whores in his early manhood. But those experiences had been quick and shameful couplings in the dark. No sooner had he spent his seed then his spirit would be brought low by melancholy. He despised the lies they told him and the lies he told himself until finally he grew bored of the whole squalor of it all and what had been seldom indulgences ceased entirely long before he entered Joffrey's Kingsguard.

Even in his childhood, there had been a lack. His mother died giving birth to him. He had a sister who was older than both him and Gregor. She had been dead more than 20 years and when he thought of her at all it was only as a pure and gentle soul, a vision of the Maiden, rather than the real flesh and blood woman she must have been. He could scarce remember her face but he remembered the blanketing warmth of her arms as rocked him when he cried, her voice soothing him with sweet lullabies and hymns _Gentle Mother, font of mercy .._.

Sansa moved the contents of her solar into his bedroom so even when he had no need of her, they were together. He lay in bed listening to the sound of her quill on parchment or her voice reading a scholarly treatise on law or history or housekeeping. He was surprised at how learned she was, beyond what her station demanded, for she spoke and read several tongues that even her kingly brother had not mastered. He liked it best though when she put her duties aside and told him stories and sang to him for his amusement. She knew more stories and songs than anyone he had ever met and he wondered if some of her songs and stories were borne from her own expansive imagination for he saw how carefully and discreetly she was judging him and tuning her words in reaction to his enjoyment. It was a new experience. No one had ever expended that level of intensity of awareness on him. She spent her days looking at him and looking after him and the joy he felt under her gaze was powerfully transformational. For the first time in his tormented life, he knew himself to be at once both utterly vulnerable and yet completely calm ... and _happy_. The knowledge was astonishing - was it someone else who lay there? It could not be himself.

Once he regained the command of his body, he resumed his duties as Master of Arms at Winterfell. Sansa's days were no longer preoccupied with his welfare, but her months as his nursemaid nurtured in her an easy, unconscious, liberty with his body. He would play all of the moments again in his head so that he spent his awaking hours in a mist halfway between the fantasies and the realities of being near her. The walks he had with her in the halls of Winterfell, her hands on his forearm, her body pressed so close to his that he could smell her - a sweet fragrance with a hint of lemon under the smell of flowers. That time her legs brushed against his when they swarm in the hot pools in the godswood to ease the torturous aching of his cramped muscles. Or when she brushed his hair from his face after he made her guffaw with his mimicry of that too-pleased-with-himself prick, Harrold Hardyng. Their shared physical intimacies where chaster than kisses, and yet each carried more power and attraction than any of the couplings he had experienced with another.

* * *

Since the King in the North, Brandon Stark was unmarried, the duties of the lady of the great estate fell to Sansa. Sandor saw her rarely as the demands of preparing Winterfell for the visit of Targaryen King and Queen fell upon her shoulders most heavily. Aegon and Daenerys were coming to Winterfell in two months time to return Widow's Wail. The Starks already possessed Oathkeeper and Sandor knew that it was Sansa's most fervent desire that her father's greatsword Ice be reforged from those two halves.

Knowing her obligations, he was surprised when he received an invitation to dine with her in her rooms that night. He ate with the Starks every so often, but it was not a singular honor, for they routinely dined in private with men in their employ, in order to learn about their daily concerns. As he entered her rooms, he realized this occassion was exceptional for she informed him blithely that no other Starks would be in attendance.

It was an unexpected pleasure and he sat down to enjoy the evening with her, eager to regain the quiet good fellowship that they had shared when he was bedridden. But as their meal progressed, his efforts to please her seemed to miss the mark. He told her jokes but they must have been the wrong ones, for she did not laugh. He made serious remarks, but she merely nodded distractedly without engaging him further. Perhaps finally sensing his distress at his inability to please her, she roused herself and with a gaiety he knew was forced, she spoke,

"I have a gift for you Sandor, one that will surely please you. Bran means to grant you the Hornwood lands in gratitude for your service to us. I've not seen the estate but Minisa says there are only few repairs needed."

The Hornwood lands had reverted back to the Crown after the death of its last lord, Ramsay Bolton. It was a great prize that many Stark retainers had hoped to win. He never expected that it should be granted to him, a Westerman.

As for Minisa Liddle, she was the daughter of a minor Northern lord who had gone King Branon a great service once. She had no mother and Sansa had taken her to foster in gratitude. Minisa was passably fair and would have been pretty if not for the pockmarks on her face. She boldly asked him to dance once which raised a few eyebrows at Winterfell. He felt clumsy and shy around her, as he did around all highborn women, but she put him at ease eventually with her courteous manner and shared interest in the rearing of dogs.

"Minisa is there now at my behest readying the keep for your inspection. How do you like that Sandor?"

He did not reply for a long moment. He was not yet thirty when he gave up on ever having lands and a wife. He remembered the exact moment. It was when he joined the Kingsguard at Joffrey's instigation. It came back to him now, _The king and council have determined that no man in the Seven Kingdoms is more fit to guard and protect His Grace than his sworn shield, Sandor Clegane. How do you like that dog?_ Sandor took a long moment to respond to Joffrey and he felt the eyes of all those assembled in the Great Hall of the Red Keep upon him. When he finally spoke, he was surprised at what came out of his mouth, _Why not? I have no lands nor wife to forsake, and who'd care if I did?_

It was in that long moment that his most secret desire had revealed itself to him, he had not known it before he gave voice to it. And then he put it aside as a child puts aside a beloved toy he had outgrown and now considered silly and foolish.

He didn't think anyone had given a second thought to his peculiar reply to Joffrey. But someone had, someone witnessed that moment and guessed and pitied him for his secret sorrow. That it should be his Little Bird, then only a girl of twelve, moved him indescribably.

Sansa had again reached a height of intuitive strength that unnerved him. He raised his glass to her.

"To you, Little Bird."She toasted him in return, momentarily pleased with her machinations on his behalf.

"Now tell me what's wrong with you. Don't lie, I can smell it," he said, suddenly weary of sitting and watching her, guessing at what was going on underneath.

She turned away and when she faced him again he could tell she had weighed the words she spoke next carefully, "I am nervous about the Targaryen visit to Winterfell. They have a greater purpose than delivering Widow's Wail... Aegon has been courting me by letter for several months. He's come to Winterfell to press his suit."

His thoughts must have shown on his face for she continued, "Oh you look as scandalized as any septa, but the Targaryen Kings have taken more than one wife before and Aegon needs must have another wife now. Daenerys is barren."

He was taken aback, her words felt like a hard blow to his gut. "I need a drink," he rasped. The wine she served with dinner would not suffice.

He could not look at her or else he would lose his composure. Sansa got up and walked away from him. He suddenly felt very old and his body ached with the memory of past injuries. He started rubbing the tense muscles in the back of his neck. She returned with a flagon of Dornish sour, dark and strong like he liked it. She poured him a full glass before placing the flagon on the table besides him. But Sansa made no move to return to her seat. Instead she stood behind him and kneaded his neck and shoulders in silence as he drank his wine and stared intently into the the flames of the burning fire. The minutes past and he saw the years unfold before him.

_He would become a Northern lord, conforming to the truest image of that title as if he was born to it. He would be a loyal bannerman to his Stark King and a harsh but fair master to his retainers. Minisa Liddle would give him sons and daughters whom he would love. Their marriage would be affectionate, but not passionate._

_And Sansa would be a Queen, the Younger Queen to Daenerys' Elder. She would make Aegon and Daenerys a good consort. Her children would rule the Five Kingdoms and inter-marry with the Kings of Winter and Princes of Dorne. The smallfolk would love her and she would become a great patronness of the arts and learning. She would spend her life away from him, with people he did not know, in a society that was richer and more stimulating than the North could provide._

Their future lives ready and waiting, they merely needed to step into them like stepping into a pair of boots molded to one's foot.

* * *

At last, Sansa interrupted his silent reverie, "Shall I sing to you Sandor?," her voice queer. She ceased her kneading, but she touched him still, resting her hands upon his shoulder.

"Heh? Hmm, of course Little Bird. Let's hear some chirping," he replied.

"What song would you like me to give you?"

"Florian and Jonquil? Prince Aemon the Dragonknight?" he knew these sad, beautiful songs of legendary lovers and forbidden romance were her favorites.

"No, I detest those songs, they're childish twaddle that I should have outgrown long ago," she said vehemently. _Shit._ He said the wrong thing again. He would have her in a sweeter temper, but could not find the right remedy.

"Then choose the song you like best, and I will listen to it gladly"

He heard her sigh. He felt that there was a silent understanding she wanted him to figure out and that try as he might, he had failed to grasp it.

He felt her mind spinning like a loom, its inner workings weaving the song he was waiting to hear. When she launched into it, he recognized it right away, as any drinking man would. It was the popular tavern song, "The Dornishman's Wife" but she had changed the words so that instead of tasting a Dornishman's wife, she sang of tasting a northman's daughter.

_The northman's daughter was as fair as the sun,_

_and her kisses were warmer than spring._

_But the northman's blade was made of black steel,_

_and its kiss was a terrible thing_

_The northman's daughter would sing as she bathed,_

_in a voice that was sweet as a peach,_

_But the northman's blade had a song of its own,_

_and a bite sharp and cold as a leech._

_As he lay on the ground with the darkness around,_

_and the taste of his blood on his tongue,_

_His brothers knelt by him and prayed him a prayer,_

_and he smiled and he laughed and he sung,_

_"Brothers, oh brothers, my days are here done,_

_from the northman's bite my blood runs like red water_

_But what does it matter, for all men must die,_

_and I've tasted the northman's daughter!_

He laughed heartily as she sang, bursting with good humor. _She's magnificent,_ he thought, her voice richer and bolder than he had ever heard before. But it was her tone and manner that most impressed him for in the last part of her song, her voice became raspy, drunkenly slurred but good-natured, mimicking him perfectly down to the tones of his Westerlands accent.

After she finished, she lifted her right hand from his shoulder, and turned quickly to leave his side. He stilled her left hand before she could remove it, wanting to be close to her when he thanked her. His action caused her to be caught her off balance and she fell with an _oomph_ onto his lap. She was now face to face with him and saw that her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes were drunkenly drowsy. He could smell it now - the heavy scent of sweet plum wine on her lips. She must have had a cup of it when she got up to bring him the Dornish sour. Plum wine was cloyingly sweet but very strong.

Sansa made no move to get up, perhaps too drunk to be quick on her feet. She just looked at him, up close and hard and long. Her eyes moved all over his face but at last settled on his lips.

"Do you remember tasting me Sandor? Do you remember you kissed me the night of the Battle of Blackwater Bay? _Do you remember that?_ " she said, her voice first a whisper then rising to angry challenge.

He had no recollection of kissing her, but he was as drunk as he had ever been that night. He remembered waiting for her in her room: he had lost, he was going away, but he would take her with him. He remembered promising to safeguard her, he had wanted to protect her, to please and worship her with his body. _I could keep you safe, no one would hurt you again, or I'd kill them._ He had pulled her close to him, one instant thinking _Little Bird, oh gods only let me_ ... and then in the next instant, he was angry at her, his dagger was out and poised at her throat. If she had not disarmed him with her song...

"I'm ashamed of the things that I did that night, Sansa. I'd had meant it to go differently. I'm not the same man I was then, that man he -"

"Sandor, stop," she said, placing her index finger to the center of his month. "I don't want to hear a confession, I _know_ who you are, then and now."

"You have the most fascinating mouth. Do you know that? Here ..." she moved her finger to the left side of his mouth, "no lips at all, just smooth scar tissue, and here," she moved her finger to the right, "so plump and soft and sensitive enough to feel the differences in the fine grains of salt" Her finger left his mouth to caress his jaw and then stilling as she cupped his left check with her palm, the area where the skin was all an ugly twisted mass of scar, flesh hard as leather.

"Sometimes, when I look at your mouth I feel the tips of my breasts tingle, deep inside where they can't be scratched. And then I imagine you placing your lips on the tips of breasts and the tingle becomes almost an ache ..."

He couldn't stand it anymore. He groaned and crushed her tightly her against his chest. He burrowed his nose in her hair. Her hair smelled of her scent, that fragrance of lemon under the scent of flowers. His cock had gone already thick and excited. He wanted to touch her now with a familiarity that he had never dared before. He wanted to show her the fervent tenderness that he felt, stroking her skin, fondling and kissing her everywhere. Her words so wanton, but her scent fresh and maidenly, the combination calling to the demon inside him.

* * *

She leaned her face up to his and kissed him. _At last_ , he thought. Her kisses were nothing like what he had imagined them to be. She kissed him hard on the mouth, without tenderness and without skill, as if he was a maid that she had meant to assault. What she lacked in art she made up for by the excess of her zeal, her mouth raining kisses along his cheeks, his eyelashes, his brow, his jaw, his neck. He felt her lips and tongue roam over skin that no one had kissed before, making him tremble inside himself, though his body was still as calm water. He felt powerless against her, her captive in truth.

She slipped down from his lap. She took his hand in hers, he stood up and followed her like a mongrel dog would follow a kind-hearted scullery girl in hopes of a scrap of bread. She lead him out of from the room in which they dined and into her bedroom, stopping as they reached the foot of her bed.

He touched her gently, rubbing her arms, as if to make certain she would not vanish into thin air. She started to pull at the laces of her gown, he joined in, helping her remove the layers of her clothing as dispassionately as if he were her maid, until she was down to her linen shift. He was so hard it hurt and he was afraid he would terrify her if he did not contain his movements. Sansa took the shift by the hem, drew it over her head, and tossed it aside. She made quick action of her smallclothes, until at last, she stood before him naked except for her gray silk hose and garters.

Abruptly, he grabbed her waist, pulling her closer to him. "Lady," he whispered roughly against her ear. "Lay you down."

She laid down on the edge of her bed, resting back on her elbows. She had no shame, she made no efforts to cover her teats or her cunt. She merely stared at him intently with her blue eyes, as blue as a sunlit sea, deep enough for a man to drown in. He saw in those eyes a certain look she had sometimes, the look that first captivated him at the Hand's tourney all those years ago. It was a look of absolute sweetness and absolute gravity, as if she could pierce his appearance and see his very soul.

He started to undress himself, never taking his eyes off of her. He drank in the sight of her, she was more lovely than he could have imagined, all of his forbidden fantasies materializing into life. At last he stood before her, bare to the waist. He felt arrested in the moment, and forced himself to master his shyness. "Sandor, why do delay?" she spoke, shy in turn but eager, the voice of temptation.

He wanted to tell her. But he could not find the words _skin, warm, luminous like a pearl. your hair, your beautiful hair falling free, the red strands in the firelight, shining copper, even the hair down there. your teats, nipples rosy pink. so lovely. your waist, your belly ... I'm dying ... I'm dying ..._

"I'm inspecting your great age and ugliness, wench," he rasped.

He meant it as a jape, surely she knew her effect on men. But Sansa did not grin at him like he had expected. Instead she glanced away for a moment and when she faced him again, he saw that her eyes had glistened, shiny as if on the verge of tears.

He went to her now, kneeling on the floor of her bed, as if in supplication. He placed his head on her lap and he felt her gather her arms around him, holding him like a mother would hold her child, who had been errant but was now ashamed.

She stroked his hair gently, and then she spoke to him in a soft, faraway voice, "Oh I don't mean to be so maudlin. It's nothing to do with you. Its just when you spoke about my great age... I had the very same thought this morning as I was inspecting my face in the mirror. Today, I'm exactly two years older than my brother Robb was when he died. He was brave, so brave, the Young Wolf who won all his battles but lost the war. When I lived in fear as a hostage of the Lannisters in King's Landing, I would steel myself by saying _I must be brave, like Robb._ He was my older brother, how I looked up to him. And now I'm older than he was and I will grow older than he ever will be."

She lifted his head from her lap, and she held his chin in her fingertips, "I've lived in fear for so long that I had to no time to grieve. And now that I am safe, my grief comes upon me as unpredictable as a summer snow in Winterfell, its bite as sharp as a red-hot dagger. Oh, I don't want to ruin this evening. I don't mean to be difficult. I'm in such a mood tonight. Come, kiss me, I've dreamt of your kisses, dreamt of them for a thousand years."

He got up and sat with her on the bed. She leaned in to kiss him, but he drew his face back from hers. He grabbed her hands in both of his and pressed them backwards, so that they lay entwined behind her back, keeping her imprisoned. He wanted to kiss her differently this time, tenderly, as he had always imagined. He way he held her caused her teats to arch against him, she pressed them insistently against his chest and he knew what she wanted. His fingers itched to touch her teats, between her legs, all the good parts, the ones men didn't have. But he resisted. She had always been the one touching him, now he wanted the liberty to touch her. He wished to do so leisurely, exploring her brow, her neck, the area behind her earlobe. At last his mouth moved down to her body, kissing her collarbone, then tonguing the skin down further. He let go of her hands and brought his up to palm her ample teats, then he pushed them together tightly and rubbed his thumbs across both tips making them hard. She was trembling and sighing under his touch, chewing her lip, her eyes closed as if to contain all the sensations within herself. The sweetness of the moment amazed him, he felt absurdly close to tears. This was his fantasy then, soft words, gentle touches, the bride and the bridegroom.

He recognized it now and knew then that they had to stop.

"Sansa, what do you want me? Kisses and a dalliance?" he asked, more harshly then he intended. She had brought up her dead brother Robb and he thought about that boy king's fate. The singers had composed a song about the Young Wolf, but it not about his bravery. It was a song about his folly. The song was a morality tale, about a hero brought low by the love of an unworthy woman, about the dangers of choosing love over duty.

Perhaps, Sansa's thoughts mirrored his, for she looked into his eyes and with complete openness replied, "I am not sure. At least that, or else I would not be so bold. If I said that I loved and cherished you, but was frightened by the weight of the consequences, would you understand me?"

Of course he understood her, but it was a bitter disappointment nonetheless to hear her speak as the pragmatist. He wanted what he had always mocked her for: the pretty little bird, telling him pretty little lies. He struggled to reason with himself. Sansa was a princess of a line that stretched back eight thousand years, the blood of the Kings of Winter, sister to kings, and courted by kings. Even if she should be allowed to marry him, he did not know if she would love him tomorrow as much as she thought she loved him today. The example of the marriage of Jorah Mormont and Lynesse Hightower provided a sharp lesson on how a union that had been a celebrated love match could turn sour and rancid.

"I understand Sansa and I don't begrudge you for it. You were meant to be the Younger Queen. Not just by the right of blood, but by the events that have shaped you. The world is fast changing, the maesters say that in the future the seasons may last months instead of years. No ones know what tomorrow will bring but as Queen you'll shape the world that is to come. Perhaps the singers will write a song about you as they did about Good Queen Alysanne."

She listened considerately during the first part of his speech. But snorted, unladylike, when he mentioned Good Queen Alysanne.

"Sandor, I told you earlier I hate those songs," she declared heatedly. "Alysanne" was a famous ballad that may have been about Queen Alysanne. It was predictably sad.

"I was with Arya today in the crypts. The Kings of Winter are down there, sitting on their stone thrones as if in judgment. I felt their ice eyes upon me telling me that I did not belong there, that I was not a wolf, that only Arya was a wolf. I shivered in fear and then Arya held my hand. She told me that I was brave, that I had slain giants and cheated devils. _Where is Littlefinger? Where is Cersei Lannister? They stood before you once, where are they now? Let us go and seek their graves_! she said. Sandor, we have lived through a time as great as the age of heroes and the songs that are sung about my brother, Jon, will be sung for a thousand years. I don't know if my life will ever inspire the bards, if it does then I hope it will be about the maid that slew the giant and cheated a devil. I want my song to be a rousing tale about triumph over villains and adverse fortune, not a sad ballad to evoke pathos and tears."

She then took his left hand and placed it over her bosom. He took his right hand and placed it between her legs, stroking her initially with hesitance, then sequentially with more purpose. She was a maid, he felt her veil. _I will not hurt her_ , he swore to himself. He stroked her for a long time like that, until she was sopping wet for him, her eyes glazed over as if in a trance. Suddenly her trance broke, and she fell upon him with an appetite. She pushed him back until he lay across the bed and she straddled him. She held his hands to his side, though it was ludicrous that she thought she could overpower him. He might of pushed her off with a rumble of his chest. She kissed the tops of his chest, he felt her tongue flicking his nipple, then her kisses moved lower along his stomach and abdomen. Sansa's kisses were leisurely. She seemed to know that she was prolonging his agony, letting him wonder if she would dare to touch him in the manner in which he craved. He heard himself breathing like Stranger would after he had ridden him fast and hard.

At last he felt her hands on his breeches, pulling them off. He pushed himself up, supporting his weight on his elbows. He wanted to see this. She grabbed his cock, mercifully she was more tender in this than in her kisses. Her fingertip gently brushed across the head of his cock, making it weep. He saw the question she asked timidly with her eyes.

"Do it," he ordered softly. She stuck out her pink tongue and licked the top and then licked all around. "That's good, now put your mouth over it," he told her. She was untutored, he needs must educate her.

Her tongue swirled around his tip, then she slipped her lips over the head of his cock. He drew in his breath, teeth clenching as if in pain at the pleasure of it all. He tried to hold himself back, but could not last long under the the magic and might of her soft mouth. _Oh have mercy, Little Bird,_ he growled like a wounded animal as his climax came upon him, his face twisting as if it was in pain. After he finished, she straddled him once more, rubbing his arms as if he was some racehorse she needed to calm. He felt the wetness of their loins touching, sliding against each other, it heated him so that he found himself aroused once more.

She smiled at him triumphantly, fully aware of her power over him. He had been conquered, she had slain him, given him the gift of mercy.

She leaned close, her face pressed against his, nose to nose. She whispered, "Sandor, the song I sung for you earlier. You thought I was the northman's daughter. But don't you know, you're my Dornishman's wife? All men must die, but I have had a taste of you. Warm as spring," she kissed his right check, "Sweet as a peach," then his left.

"Will you not have a taste of me? I'm _dog-drawn._ " She used the colloquial word spoken about in the kennels, to describe the state of a bitch from which a dog had been removed by force, before the mating is done.

_Valar morghulis_ , he thought and then moved to lie over her.


	3. Sansa 1

**Sansa**

Sansa emerged from her bath warm and wet, her skin scrubbed pink by her maids. She stood naked before her mirror as her maids dried her, trimmed her nails and brushed her long, thick auburn hair until it shined and fell in soft ringlets down her back. Then they anointed her with her favorite perfume. The perfume was placed on her fingers, behind each ear, under her chin and then lightly on her nipples.

All the while Minisa Liddle sat on Sansa's bed, her eyes watching her, transfixed.

"Oh you are so beautiful my lady, the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. I do not think even Queen Daenerys could outshine you and the singers say she's the most beautiful woman in the world. Would that I had but a portion of your beauty."

Sansa stared at her face and Minisa's face reflected in the mirror. Minisa was fiftteen years old, tall and pockmarked, men judged her passably fair but not pretty. Sansa was eighteen years old, tall as Minisa, but her countenance was flawless, every feature perfectly in accordance with the standards of beauty for the age in which they lived. She was aware of the power of her beauty over men, she had been the object of their lusts since she had first flowered and was as well practiced in the art of denying men as her sister Arya was in slaying them.

Sansa turned away from her reflection and spoke to Minisa, "You are lovely, my sweetling. And will make some lord a fine wife one day if he has the wits to appreciate you. A woman's worth is more than her appearance."

 _And a fair face often hides a black heart_ , she would have added but stopped herself because it would be discourteous to imply that Minisa was plain but goodhearted. Here she thought of her time in King's Landing, her handsome prince Joffrey who had his Kingsguard beat and strip her naked, his beautiful mother Queen Cersei who had killed Sansa's direwolf Lady and who repaid Lord Stark's mercy by cutting his head off. Even Margaery Tyrell proved to be a rose with sharp thorns, she had befriended the friendless Sansa, earned her trust and then betrayed it by framing her for the murder that the Tyrells had orchestrated. Sansa had good reason to distrust a fair face, instead her measure of beauty was whether the face was honest. By that standard, Minisa was a surpassing beauty, and _Sandor_ ...

The seamstress knocked then, she was admitted into Sansa's quarters bearing the long-awaited dress.

"Try it on! Try it on!" Minisa urged excitedly. "But close your eyes. Don't look yet."

Sansa did as she was bid. She closed her eyes and lifted her arms as Minisa and her maids dressed her in her silk smalclothes. And then she felt the gathered acres of the gown's rich concoction of gray silk and velvet and expensive Myrish lace over her head. The gown's skirts fell over her face with a smooth swoosh.

Sansa felt embarrassed at the expense that went into the gown, "I had rather we spent gold on glass from Myr than lace from Myr," she had informed the Hand of the King, Davos Seaworth. The Glass Garden was a greenhouse heated by the hot springs of Winterfell, it grew flowers and vegetables and fruits. The Bastard of Bolton had destroyed it during the razing of Winterfell. Her brother had ordered it to be reconstructed as one of his first commands as King in the North. But years later, it had yet to be completely repaired due to the great expense of importing Myrish glass.

Davos had replied that the cost of her gown was a pittance compared to the cost of completing the Glass Garden. "You are a beautiful girl Sansa. You shall have a gown more lovely than any you presently own, a gown befitting a princess of the blood," his voice was serious discussing this matter as if he was discussing a matter of state, filling Sansa with trepidation. _This is not about gowns_ , she thought. And then Davos requested that she attend a private dinner with Bran and himself. The simple requested filled Sansa's heart with a pang of dread.

Sansa kept her eyes closed as many busy hands went about her person, lacing things here and there, smoothing the fabric in some places, spreading it out in others. Even after their hands withdrew there was a long moment of silence.

"May I open them now?" Sansa asked.

"Aye, my lady," the seamstress replied hesitantly.

When Sansa opened her eyes and stared at her reflection, she understood the silence. The gown was as ill-fitting as the ones she had inherited from her Aunt Lysa who had been a largish woman. It gaped about the bodice and her waist, where it should have been snug.

"I can't understand it, my lady. I took your measurements most carefully," and here she showed Sansa her notes with the measurements written neatly down, each measurement consistent with Sansa's mental estimates of her figure.

The seamstress took out her measuring tape again and measured Sansa's waist and bosom.

"Ah that explains it, then my lady. See here your waist has gone down to eighteen inches and your bosom to thirty-two."

"You are thinner, my lady. I've noticed that you hardly eat since Aegon's been courting you. You didn't even touch the lemoncakes Cook made for you last night," spoke Minisa.

Food bored Sansa these days, as many things did. Her thoughts were consumed with the Targaryen royal visit and with Sandor, there was little room for anything as mundane as hunger.

"My lady should not starve herself in order to impress the Targaryens. You need not worry that Queen Daenerys will overshadow you, you are her equal if not her superior," the seamstress declared, her voice slightly admonishing her in a tone her mother Lady Catelyn had used.

"Is there something that troubles you?" Minisa asked, standing close and gently placing her hands and her chin on Sansa's shoulders. They both stared into their reflections in the mirror.

Minisa had declared Sansa to be the most beautiful woman she had ever seen. Yet as Sansa stared into their respective faces reflected in the mirror, it was Minisa' she judged to the greater beauty, for in that girl's face was a sweetness, a poignant insecurity and innocence that Sansa no longer possessed.

Sansa's face had lost the fullness of childhood, it was not that she was losing her freshness, but instead of beauty, she acquired something of a counterfeit to it. She turned her head in profile and ah there it was - that look of invincible prettiness that she saw in certain pampered, expensive cats.

No, not cats, _lions_ , the comparison came to her, unbidden.

And from this unwelcome thought came others, memories Sansa had half-buried, of a woman that had been defeated but who still continued to haunt her.

_My brother learned to fight with sword and lance and mace, while I was taught to smile and sing and please. He was heir, while I was to be sold to some stranger like a horse, to be ridden whenever my new owner liked, beaten whenever he liked, and cast aside in time for a younger filly. His lot was to be glory and power, while mine was birth and moonblood._

"I thought you would happy, yet you seem to be so sad. You will be the Younger Queen of the Five Kingdoms, as you were meant to be. Is it Aegon that worries you? By all reports, he is a maiden's dream. How could you not grow to love him?" Minisa whispered, with a girlish sigh, in Sansa's ears.

* * *

It was not just anonymous reports that praised Aegon. Lord Davos had gone to King's Landing to negotiate the peace between the Five Kingdoms and the independent Kingdom of the North. He had came back to Winterfell commending the Targaryens, in particular Aegon.

In the Great Hall of Winterfell he had told his King and all in attendance, "Aegon is a proficient warrior in various martial disciplines - both the style of Westerosi knight and the art of water-dancing of the Braavosi. He is a learned scholar, he has mastered several tongues and is an accomplished student of history and law and poetry. He is a defender of the Faith of the Seven and yet respectful of other creeds. He has lived with the smallfolk and knows what it is to hunger and to be hunted. True, his deeds are small in comparison to Daenerys, but her greatness lies in conquering lands and people, I think Aegon's greatness will be in governing them. Daenerys is a great hero, equal to the North's own. But like all the Targaryens before her, she thinks kingship is her birthright, that her family is alone fit to rule because of their dragon's blood. Aegon does not share her belief, dragon or stag or lion or wolf, blood is all the same to him. He knows that kingship is a duty, not a right, and that a king must live and rule for his people."

Sansa took Lord Davos' good opinion seriously. No man was a better judge of character than him. In some ways, he reminded her of her father, though the stations that they had been born to could not have been further apart. Lord Davos had something of Lord Eddard Stark's hard integrity but salted with a measure of prudence and pragmatism.

When Aegon and Daenerys presented their suit in a letter to her kingly brother, Bran asked Lord Davos whether they should consider this most unusual match, "He is a worthy husband for Princess Sansa. And I can think of no match where two people are more well suited to each other. This arrangement is of course unorthodox, but Targaryen kings have taken more than one wife before and they must have a Queen consort now, for Daenerys is barren."

And then he turned from Bran, to appeal to Sansa directly, "Aegon has sworn to honor you and he will take no other wife after you. Princess, you have the education, the breeding and the temperament to be their Queen consort, the Younger Queen to Daenery's Elder. Moreover, the Throne requires a ruler who is a Westerosi, a native daughter who understands this country and its people. Aegona and Daenerys, for all their noble intentions, are but foreign invaders. I love you as do I a daughter, this match is as well suited for you as it is for them. Aegon is no Joffrey, no Harrold Hardyng. You will find him to be gentle and brave and strong."

 _Gentle. Brave. Strong._ Lord Davos had unwittingly used the very words her father had used to describe her future husband, the words he had used to describe his match for her after he informed her he was breaking off her engagement to Joffrey. She cringed with shame and guilt at the memory, how she spoken to him afterward and how she had disobediently run to Queen Cersei when her father told her he was sending his daughters back to Winterfell.

 _Gentle. Brave. Strong._ And so Lord Davos had bound her to this match, with these three words he had destroyed her secret hopes and dreams, and with greater effect than if he had threatened her with harsh words or harsh blows.

* * *

Sansa tried to imagine this paragon of manly virtue, practicing arms, reading history and writing poetry, fishing with the smallfolk. But she could never hold a picture of the courtly and handsome Aegon for long in her head, her imaginings kept turning him back into Sandor, scarred and fierce and crude. _You must not think of Aegon like that, or else he may see the disappointment in your eyes when you meet._

And then other voices, not her own, filled her head.

 _"I will make you a match with a high lord who's worthy of you, someone brave and gentle and strong,"_ her father spoke.

 _"I don't want someone brave and gentle, I want him. We'll be ever so happy, just like in the songs,"_ her younger self replied, though it was not Joffrey she spoke of, but his Dog.

 _"How could you not grow to love him_?" Minisa said.

"Love is a poison, a sweet poison, but it will kill you all the same."

Sansa saw the confused expression on Minisa's face in the mirror. She realized that she had unconsciously spoken her thoughts aloud. They were Cersei's words but Sansa's sentiments.


	4. Sansa 2

Sansa lay in bed waiting for Sandor. Tonight would be the last night she could spend with him. Arya would return to Winterfell tomorrow evening and her arrival would mean that Sansa would have her old bedmate back, her sister, instead of her lover. She would still have him for the time remaining to them, but they could not fall asleep in each arms after tonight.

* * *

"Why does she sleep with you anyway? Is she an infant? Perhaps you need to hire a wet nurse for her," Sandor had told her. His demeanor upon hearing the news about Arya displacing him was rather comic - his face was twitching and contorted into a fierce angry scowl, yet his voice had a petulant tone to it that brought to mind Sweetrobin. Sansa was forever playing dual roles with him, mistress and mother.

"Arya and I use to share the same bed when we were little girls, but our parents separated us when we got older due to our constant fighting. She hasn't told me why she wants to sleep with me now, but I can guess. She's been the lone wolf for so long, I think it gives her comfort to wake up in the night and know that she can reach for her sister. Sometimes we hold hands while we're half asleep. And I know it gives her peace to feel the touch of my hand in hers, for I feel the same peace. Its a reconciliation of sorts, though we have never spoken a word to each about Lady or the butcher's boy or any of that other ugly business. Arya and I may be different as the sun and the moon, but the same blood flows through our hearts. She needs me as I need her. _And I need you to understand that_. My time with her is also short."

Sandor listened to Sansa with annoyance. He cursed "fucking wolf-bitch," but spoke no more of the matter afterward.

Sansa understood his moods, perhaps better than he understood himself. His brother Gregor was dead, twice over. Sandor's sole purpose for living for the past thirty years was gone. In its place, he had exchanged his hatred for Gregor with his love for her, and both emotions were equal in their all-consuming intensity. But his love for her did not come without the occasional bite of resentment. She was the source of all pleasure to him, all comfort and joy. Sansa's world encompassed Winterfell and her siblings and Sandor. While his world was narrower and made to fit just her.

* * *

Sandor came into her room at last. When he saw her and what she was wearing, he gave a low whistle and appraised her with a wolfish grin, "What's all this?"

Sansa lay on her bed, she was wearing a silk shift but no smallclothes underneath. The shift was so thin and delicate that she could pull it through the hole in one of her rings. It clothed her, and yet revealed all. Her bed was covered with blue rose petals. Winterfell was famous for the winter blue roses it grew, and they had just started to bloom a week ago. Her auburn hair flowed free but she wore a crown of tiny rosebud upon her head, and her hands were entwined with each other and bound tightly in rose vines.

"I thought we could play make-believe. That you would enjoy this," she said. They had become lovers very recently, but she knew the kind of play that would make his make his blood rise.

"Who are you? Who am I?" he said with a smirk, as he undressed and then climbed into bed with her. His knees crushed the rose petals, releasing their heavy luxuriant odor into the air.

"I am a princess from a faraway land. An evil Queen kidnapped me so that I would marry her ogre son. You're the ogre's sworn shield."

"Huh, well your beauty and goodness have captivated me, princess," he said mockingly. "I'm leaving here but I've come to release you from your cage, little bird. Come with me and I will keep you safe. No one would hurt you again, or I'd kill them."

Sandor kissed her then, and the sweetness of his kiss, ran down through her. They kissed for a long time, until she felt wild with desire.

Then he tore his lips from hers and laid his body alongside her, leaning over her. She drew up her knees and his left hand caressed from her ankle to her knee to her thigh, over and over again, until at last it rested between her legs, his fingers stroking the curls he found there. He rained kisses from her mouth to her neck, then collarbone. He kissed her breasts through the thin silk shift, sucking on her nipples deeply.

"I've long to do that my little bird. Your teats make a man wish he had never been weaned," he growled. Then with one hand he pulled the shift from off her shoulders, so that her breasts were bare. He put his mouth on them once more, rolling the nipples between his tongue and teeth.

His other hand moved to stroke her between her legs. Up and down the folds, and circling the nub with his thumb. Oh it was ecstasy, to feel his mouth on her breasts, and his hand stroking her there. Sansa was close, so close, her head twisting back and forth, the maelstrom inside her body.

Then he stilled his hand and his mouth and leaned his face close to hers.

"But before I rescue you, answer me this... Are you maiden? I only rescue maidens."

Sansa groaned in frustration. She would have beaten his chest with her fists but her hands were still bound in rose vines.

"Oh you .. you Dog!" she yelled at him. She wanted to curse, but Septa Mordane's tutelage was too ingrained to overcome.

His slid one finger into her slit, intruding and pressing upon her. "No, not a maiden" he said, and then she felt another finger slide into her, "but scarce used." He took his fingers out and place the index finger on her lips.

"Show me some appreciation and I'll consider it," he rasped, cruelly.

Sansa's tongue poked out of her mouth and licked his finger, tasting herself on it. Then he slipped it into her mouth. She curled her tongue around it and sucked hungrily, her eyes never leaving his face. Sandor groaned, then removed his fingers. He moved his body so that he crouched on top of her, his member directly above her mouth. She pleasured him in this manner, until his breathing deepened to grunts and feral grows, his fingers tightening in her hair.

"Enough!" he ordered. She release him but with a long draw making him shudder.

He kissed her passionately along her body, starting with her neck down to her the apex of her thighs. She felt his hot breath on her mound and opened her legs for his exploration. He kissed her there, holding her hips still with his hands, while he tongue touched her, over and over, making her gasp and writhe. A warm blanket of pleasure transfused her, she laid her bound hands against his head, pressing him deeper into her. Oh, she could die from this sweetness. She felt as if she was walking on the edge of a cliff, and any moment she would jump from it, she was falling, falling...

And then her culmination came upon her, sudden and sharp in its intensity. She arched her body off the bed, straining as if she could have more. The sensation shot through her, her muscles contracting, beyond her command.

Sandor did not remove his mouth until her body stilled. Then he moved to kneel before her, his eyes roaming her body with appreciation. He chuckled gently, caressing her flushed cheeks with his knuckles. She could tell from his expression that he wanted to tell her something, she saw the words form in his mouth, but he seemed unable to bring them forth.

"What is it Sandor?" she spoke, gently nudging his thigh with her toe.

"I've seen you like this," he murmured.

"Am I beautiful?" she responded, utterly pleased at the power she held over him, one of the fiercest warriors in all of Westeros. With her foot, she massaged his groin, making him groan softly. Then she moved her legs farther apart, so that he could see how much she wanted him.

"You're so beautiful, my forest lass." he said shyly. And then he did something that completely took her by surprise.

His voice was soft as if he was embarrassed at the excess of sentiment he felt. But it was deep and soothing.

_My featherbed is deep and soft_

_and there I'll lay you down_

_I'll dress you all in yellow silk_

_and on your head a crown_

His hands moved to the crown of roses on her head and he lifted it off her, tossing it aside.

_For you shall be my lady love,_

_and I shall be your lord._

He took her bound hands in his, then broke the bonds, releasing her. He kissed the palms of her hands and pushed her down gently onto the bed.

_I'll always keep you warm and safe,_

_and guard you with my sword._

He laid on top of her, she cradled him between her thighs, twining her legs about his. She felt him enter her, and she sighed at the pleasure of his possession. He laid his neck against her mouth, while he thrust inside her. She tongued his neck, tasting his salty skin, drunk on the scent and maleness of him. Her hands roamed all along his back and buttocks, her thoughts a constant litany of _mine, mine, mine._

Oh if she could lie like this beneath him for all time. She felt his pleasure come upon him, his body trembled with it and he gave a long deep groan before stilling. She felt his wet seed inside her, and was shocked when her body responded to it with sudden small climax, as if she had been standing on a platform that had been pulled from her feet, startling her with her fall.

He rolled off of her, she turned to her side so that her back was facing his front. He pulled her close, nuzzling her neck. She leaned her hand back, feeling for his member. It was still hard.

"Put it in again. I want to feel you as I fall asleep," she whispered. He inserted himself once more and cuddled her close, his hands cupping her breasts.

Sleep came to him almost immediately, she heard the slowness of his breath against her ear. She lay awake, the words of his song in her mind. He hadn't sung the second part.

_And how she smiled and how she laughed,_

_the maiden of the tree,_

_She spun away and said to him,_

_no featherbed for me.  
_

_I'll wear a gown of golden leaves,_

_and bind my hair with grass,_

_But you can be my forest love,_

_and me your forest lass._

Sleep overtook her as the song continued to play in her head, a sweet sensual lullaby.

* * *

She woke again after what seemed like not too long a time and then jostled him awake. They love each other once more, then repeated the pattern again and again. He would fall asleep and she would wake him so that they could have each other. She had never felt more passionate, her desperation had lent her an energy she did not know she possessed.

They must have slept for a few hours. When she opened her eyes again, she saw that the night was breaking. It would be dawn soon and Sandor would have to leave.

"Sansa," he spoke, obviously he had been awake for awhile for his voice had no trace of sleepiness. The sound of his voice and the rumble of his chest brought her to alertness.

"I want to play a different make-believe."

"Hmm," she responded, her finger twining itself in his chest hair.

"You will be Queen Naerys and I will be Prince Aemon," he said, his voice serious and grave.

Queen Naerys and Prince Aemon the Dragonknight were famous forbidden lovers. He was a member of the Kingsguard and the alleged father of King Daeron II. The song "Prince Aemon the Dragonknight" spoke about his doomed love for Queen Naerys. It had been once of her favorites as a child.

Sansa propped herself onto her elbows, suddenly wide awake.

"Barristan Selmy is ailing, so they say. I will follow you to King's Landing as your sworn shield. You will arrange for my appointment to the Kingsguard once Barristan is dead."

 _Which won't be long once he knows you're his replacement. You'll hasten him to his grave._ Sandor Clegane replacing Barristan Selmy not once, but twice, in the Kingsguard was comical it is dark absurdity.

"You would give up the promise of your lands and a wife and children?" she asked, her voice almost in despair. She knew the answer.

He didn't reply but held her in a fierce embrace.

She stroked his arm, feeling the tension of his body. She felt tears spring to her eyes. Oh, she could have wept for wanting what he would have given her. Finally, she spoke, "Sandor, I've seen that future. I've known the people that have lived that life. It is not for us."

He pushed her away then and got up, sitting on the bed with his back to her. He started to rise, but she held him back with the touch of her arm.

"Of course not, my lady. I'm but your dog, begging for treats and then slinking off at a kick," he said, his voice quiet but seething with angry rage.

"Shh, beloved. You willfully misunderstand me. _Family. Duty. Honor._ These were my mother's words. My father would have rather died than give up his honor. It was the threat of my execution that moved him. How could I live with myself if I behaved in a manner that would have grieved them? Aegon is no Joffey, no Harrold Hardyng. If we wed, I owe him my duty."

"Fuck Aegon! He does not keep to one bed, why should you?" Sandor sneered.

She hadn't seen him this angry at her since that night of the battle of Blackwater Bay. She cringed in fear, she didn't want to upset him further but he had to understand.

"Would you love me as well as you do now if we chose this path? You resent my love for Arya, for Winterfell, for anyone who isn't you. How would you feel seeing his babe at my breast? Standing outside the chambers while he lays with me. One day you will find that you hate me as much as you love for the putting you through those torments, day after day, year after year."

She threw her arms around his back, hugging him tight.

"Dawn is not here yet. We still have some time together. Don't be angry. I love you. I love you. I love you."

"Let's pretend I'm another Queen. Not Queen Naerys ... I'm Queen Nymeria and you're Lord Mors Martell. I've conquered you. I ... I wish to make the best use you, my warrior." She kissed his shoulder, his neck. She moved her palm to his cheek, trying to force him to turn towards her, to kiss her with his mouth.

She placed her lips on his, but he remained implacable, all of his fiery ardor turned to ice.

"You are so sweet, so well-made." She stroked his member, feeling it harden in her palms. She moved her mouth to kiss it, knowing this pleasure delighted him.

"Stop Sansa," he rasped, his voice distant and emotionless. He gripped by her hair and then gently moved her away from himself.

He stood before her now, his face twitching in anger or in sadness she could not say. She shrank back, afraid of his condemnation.

He moved closer to her, almost threateningly, though she knew he would never hurt her physically.

Suddenly a large tabby cat sprang on Sansa's lap. The cat faced Sandor and hissed menacingly at him, its claws out and scratching at the air, as if daring him to come between them.

"What the fuck?" Sandor spoke, his voice a mixture of confusion and irritation.

"I'm leaving. We'll speak later," Sandor said. He dressed quickly and then departed without looking at her further.

Sansa sat on her bed, for a long time after he left. She stroked the cat's head, which seemed to calm it.

"He didn't even kiss me," she told the cat. Her voice sounded peevish, but the hurt was real, it ran bone-deep. Sansa fell into her pillows, and wept bitter tears. The cat lay beside her, licking her shoulder, as if knew all her thoughts. At last her weeping spell broke. She got up from her bed and went about her morning routine. She was grown woman. She must be brave.

The cat stared at her as Sansa went about her room, washing her face and putting on her clothes.

He must have come into her rooms when Sandor did, Sansa thought. She was about her rooms for an hour before Sandor arrived and had not seen him, even when she dropped a rose under her bed and bent to pick it up.

A part of her wanted to laugh at the absurdity of the cat's presence given what had passed between her and Sandor. For the cat's name was Lord Mors and it belonged to Arya.


	5. Sansa 3

Sansa sat at the king's table in the Great Hall of Winterfell, picking at the food on her plate. It was beef and bacon pie, an old childhood favorite and a specialty of the Winterfell kitchens. But food bored her these days, and she spent the last hour hacking the pie to pieces and moving the morsels of it around her plate, anxiously looking up now and then in hopes of seeing Sandor dining in the Hall with the other Stark retainers. Her hopes were in vain, he had not shown up for supper tonight as he had not shown up for supper the past two nights. _He's avoiding me_ , she thought miserably, knowing how capable Sandor was of holding long grudges for the smallest of slights.

* * *

He had particular enmity for Tyrion Lannister, though Tyrion did not return that enmity with anything stronger than indifference. Sansa knew how much it irritated Sandor that her relationship with her former husband had developed from the cold civility of their marriage days into a genuine friendship. She often corresponded with Tyrion and not a fortnight went by without a raven arriving from King's Landing, where Tyrion resided now as Hand of the King to Aegon and Daenerys. During the long months of Sandor's recovery after his battle with Ser Robert Strong, Sansa would read aloud from one of these letters from Tyrion. She thought it would amuse him, for Tyrion was as witty and droll in letter as he was in person and he relayed all the delicious gossip about those personages Sandor had known in the long years of his service to the Lannisters. But Sandor had put a stop to that practice after the fourth occurrence, informing her brusquely that the dwarf could have written nothing that he wanted to hear.

"Why are you on such good terms with the Imp? You should hate all Lannisters for what they did to you and your family," he had barked at her one day during the period of his convalescence, when his pain had made him more short-tempered then usual.

Her feelings towards the Lannisters were a source of perplexity to her. She tried to explain it to Sandor by telling him, "I once swore to raise my children to hate Lannisters, but in spite of this, I find it to be a sore trial to hate every one of them at the individual level. And I do not think I should hate Tyrion even in theory, he had nothing to do with Bran's fall or my father's death or the Red Wedding. Tyrion was kind to me after a fashion when I was a Lannister hostage in King's Landing, and he annulled our marriage when he rose to power as the King's Hand without asking me or Bran for any favors in return. I never imagined that we would be friends, but we are, and he's been most encouraging of my scholarly ambitions."

Sandor, while cunning and a great reader of people, was not a great reader of books and still moved his lips when he had cause to read a letter. Her siblings, save Bran, were uninterested in anything scholarly, and even clever Bran could not be moved to study anything that was not a treatise on engineering or some other practical field. Many men, often well-meaning, warned her ominously that mental stimulation in excess was dangerous for a woman, especially a maid, why everyone knew it was a cause of a woman's barrenness. Tyrion, alone, had been sympathetic towards and encouraging of her intellectual pursuits, and for that kindness she offered him her friendship. For it was one of Sansa's secret ambitions, perhaps not quite ladylike, to write a History of the War. And Tyrion was of great help in fulfilling that ambition in a myriad of ways, as a source of information about the Lannisters' role in the war, as a learned man who could provide constructive critique of her scribblings, and as a source of moral support in the face of others who would deride and derail her ambition.

"Why do you dislike him so?" she asked reluctantly in return. She was fearful that the truth was some sordid tale.

 _I've lost count of how many I've killed, high lords and rich men, knights, and yes, women and children too. They're the meat and I'm the butcher_ , he had told her long ago. _Look, look at me_ , he said too. And she had looked, long and hard, as the years went by and their friendship deepened. She strove to see him as he was truly, resisting the urge to conjure up a false image to fulfill her girlish fantasies. No doubt, Sandor had committed many evil deeds in service to the Lannisters. But he was no monster. He was a man of conscience, and that was what separated him from the real monsters she had known, men like his brother and men like Littlefinger. She steeled herself to hear his confession. _He was one of those Lannister guardsmens Tywin had ordered to gang- rape Tyrion's first wife_ , she thought.

"That buggering gargoyle publicly mocked me for my ugliness. There was a dogfight and the losing dog had half of his face chewed up. The Imp japed that the dog should be called Sandor Clegane. I may be no maiden's dream, but the Imp must be the ugliest creature in the Seven Kingdoms. The fucking arrogance of that dwarf!" he replied.

Sansa was stunned, this was the source of his bitterness that spanned the years?

"You think him so droll, so funny, but he's told the same jape on other occasions, at other dogfights. He's one of those small prick men that need to belittle others in order to make himself feel bigger. I'm sure he rehearses his lines in the mirror, in order deceive naive maids like yourself of his great wit. Gods know, he can't satisfy a woman using any other weapon. Why are you laughing? You think his jape funny!" he roared at her.

"No, no, not that. I was thinking of other things. I was thinking ... about what kind of man you are. A man of great conscience," she said, trying hard to contain her laughter.

"Stupid little bird. I have no great conscience. I have a little, thin and threadbare conscience. I try not to exercise it much, lest I wear it out from overuse. The thing makes an inconvenient appearance now and then ... most especially when you're around."

She had wanted to kiss him then, but was too timid. She settled for pulling a strand of his black hair back from his eyes. He drew his head back at her movement, and gazed at her with an inscrutable look. She saw her face reflected back to her, her face in the pupils of his gray eyes, as small as a tiny rosebud. And the expression that her rosebud face wore could only be described as lovesick.

* * *

Sansa resolved to put an end his sulk tonight, fearful that Sandor would waste their time together nursing his grievances.

She placed a piece of pie on a plate, wrapped it in a cloth, and then walked to the front of his bedroom door. She knocked but it seemed to take him an eternity to answer. She stood there nervously scanning the halls, afraid that someone might see her.

He opened the door and pulled her quickly into his room the moment he recognized her.

Sansa looked around his room, there were broken wine jars strewn all about and the heavy odor of wine was on his breath, making her reel.

"What do you want?" he muttered sourly.

"I've brought you some supper," she said, stretching her arms out to show him her peace offering.

He took the plate from her hands, put it down on a table nearby and the walked away from her to collapse onto a nearby chair. He sat on the chair as if on the throne of judgment, with his eyes he stared her down. "Well you brought it, now get out." He waved his hand at her, dismissing her as if were no more than a servant.

She turned to face the door, her hand already on the pull, she would do as he bid her and leave. His withering derision cowed her, she felt on the verge of tears in the face of his rejection. _You little fool. Tears are not a woman's only weapon. You've got another one between your legs, and you'd best learn to use it_ , the lioness whispered to her in her head.

Sansa felt a rush of daring, she paused for a moment to consider, then she audaciously bent down to remove her smallclothes. She brushed away her tears, and turned around to face him. She stared him down, lionhearted with her chin-up, as she slowly pulled the skirt of her gown higher and higher until he could see the auburn hair between her legs. He watched her movements, his eyes transfixed at the area she had exposed to him.

He said nothing for a long moment, merely staring at her, his thoughts unreadable. Then he took a deep breath and said with resignation in his voice, "You think to master me this way."

"I want to sit next to you at the lord's table yet you throw me scraps under the table as if I'm a dog. I'm tired of being your dog, I want to be your man. Come back here when you've have found the courage to lift more than your skirts for me," he rasped.

 _Bran already knows and pities me but will do nothing_ , she wanted to tell him. But she remained silent, he was too drunk for explanations. Instead she undressed and moved to lie down on his bed. She lay there shivering with cold, staring the ceiling, holding her breath.

She expelled it with a gust of relief when she heard the rustle of his clothes. He loomed above her, naked and aroused, but his eyes were drunk and sullen and angry. They were the eyes of someone she had not seen in a long time, the eyes of the Hound.

"Get up. Go stand before the mirror. I wish to put that mirror you gave me to better use," he said. She had given him a mirror, a costly gift, after he told her his story about Tyrion's jape. Sandor may not be every maiden's dream, but he was some maiden's dream, he was hers. She thought the mirror might help him see himself as she saw him. He was not handsome, but he had cause for some pride in his appearance. He was magnificently muscled, like a bull, and was yet in the prime of his life.

She stood up and walked to stand in front of the mirror. She glazed at her own reflection there. He came behind her then and held her close, his body pressed against her back. They stared at each others' reflection in the mirror, he towered over her in height and in bulk, she looked so small and delicate and helpless in his embrace.

He was beautiful, the way an animal was beautiful. She saw his legs against hers, they were muscled with a dusting of black hair. She saw his shoulders, broad and powerful. His arms, thick and brawny, one arm heavily scarred from the burns the earned from his fight with Lord Beric. He was so intensely male.

He moved his scarred arm across her body, caressing her thighs, her belly, her breasts. With both hands, he held her breasts, squeezing them gently, playing with them, then pinching her nipples with just enough pressure so that it was sharp, a pleasure on the verge of pain. Sansa watch her face become languid with her arousal. She wanted to close her eyes in order intensify the tide of sensation that was rolling through her. But at the same time, she wanted to watch. She felt disconnected from herself in a way that was exciting and strange.

She felt his hands between her legs, he was stroking her, his knuckles brushing against her slit and her buttocks. And then she felt the heavy pressure of his member at her entrance. It was too soon, she was not ready for him. The sensation startled her, she gave a small whimper of pain. He was a big man in all ways and this position was not an easy one for her to take him. Her excitement mingled with her fear. "Sandor, oh gods, I can't..." she whispered, her voice sounding strained and shaking.

"Shh, shh, I won't hurt you," he murmured, voice low and soft as if he was trying to coax a scared animal to him. She saw him spit onto his hand and then felt him rub the spit between her her legs, moistening the place where his member met her entrance.

"Bend over a little," he ordered, his hand on her neck, making sure she would obey. He moved his hips in short little thrusts until the entirety of his member was inside her. He held her up with his burnt arm. With his other arm, he moved between her legs, he placed the vee of his fingers between her nub, exposing it to the cold air. And then he moved inside her, back and forth, back and forth. He pinned her completely, she unable to do anything other than to endure his thrusts.

"Look, look at you," he ordered. And she did, she looked at herself and at him. Their position reminded her of the time she watched Stranger take a mare in heat, her entire body had reddened in a blush during those long minutes. Her body was blushing now, her breasts, her shoulders, her face, she was robed in a pink glow. Another image filled her mind too, one more obscene. It was a drawing she had found hidden in Littlefinger's solar, a copy of what appeared to be an ancient Valryian work of pornography. The dragonlords were famous for their licentiousness, which, like many of their tastes, had a touch of cruelty. From the script, Sansa could tell that the drawing was of a maiden, being raped by a giant hideous demon. The demon held the maiden from behind, its enormous manhood skewered her like a lance and from their joining either blood or seed covered his manhood, Sansa could not tell. She remembered her depraved arousal when she saw the drawing. The demon bore a faint resemblance to the Hound.

"When Aegon fucks you, remember this. Remember who came before him, who broke you to the saddle," he whispered into her ear. She was moaning now, she felt her climax come upon her, but it was so strong, stronger than any she had felt before. It came upon her like a fury, her body shuddering with such force in his restraining arms. It seemed as if her very being had been condensed into one space, the space where she was joined with him. Her spasms ended just as his began. He bucked wildly against her. The force of his movements took her off her feet. She watched him in the mirror, the muscles of his neck corded and thick. He was grunting now, loud and feral and just before she felt the discharge of his seed inside her, he leaned forward and bit her neck, not hard, but enough to break the skin.

He picked her up and carried her to his bed. Her climax still lingered, shooting short bolts of sensation into her groin. It almost hurt, she closed her eyes and curled into a ball, her knees against her chin.

When she came to she saw that Sandor was staring at her. His eyes were no longer angry, his climax had robbed him of it. The Hound had departed, only Sandor remained, his puppy dog eyes gazing upon her with a mixture of concern and worship.

"Did I hurt you?" he asked.

"No, I liked it," she replied and then she closed her eyes and fell asleep.

When she woke, she found herself lying in his arms, his hands stroking her shoulder, his lips kissing her forehead.

"Is that how you took your whores?" she asked him. Their lovemaking had left her in a strange, contrary mood. She dared to say things to him she would not have normally.

"No, there is nothing that I do with you that's remotely similar to any coupling I've had in the past. Those were sordid experiences, no sooner had then regretted," he replied, his voice calm and dispassionate.

"This is a different speech then what I've heard previously. _Do you like wine, Little Bird? True wine? A flagon of sour red, dark as blood, all a man needs. Or a woman_ ," she said, imitating his slurred drunken voice.

"You misunderstood me. I meant that wine was all that a man or a woman needed. What would you say if I told you, you were not my first woman, but you were my fifth," he said.

"Oh Sandor, you were not a maid, but you were scarce used," she teased him.

"Aye, scarce used, scarce loved. Until you came, Little Bird. I'll be forever grateful for that. I look into the mirror you bought me and I don't know why you bothered."

"Don't you see what I see Sandor?," she said

"I see that you're blind, girl. And a fool. A beautiful little fool."

"Your fool," she said with all the fervent love and tenderness she felt. "In truth though, I bought you the mirror hoping you'd see what I see ... which is that you look stupid in that red woolen tunic with the leather dog's head sewn on the front."

He scowled at her with a look of annoyed surprise for a moment. Then his scowl broke and he grinned at her with a grin that she never seen before, boyish and innocent. She smiled back at him, gratified that she had given him the self-confidence that he had previously lacked, the confidence that would allow him to laugh at himself.

He smacked her bottom, hard enough that it stung, "That's my favorite tunic, wench."

"I know," she replied with mock forbearance.

"Well, perhaps red is not my color. What color do you suggest I wear? Hmm?" he asked her, nuzzling her neck.

"Gray," she replied, thoughtlessly.

"The color of your house? Is this a marriage proposal?" he replied.

"Gray, for your eyes, Sandor," she said, apprehensive about where the conversation was heading.

"It was a just a jape, Sansa," his voice goodnatured but cool as if he was telling himself he was done with his anger and his self-pity.

"Sandor, if I was your fifth, then how come you are so knowledgeable about pleasing a woman? You knew to do things that even Randa Royce, that merry widow who befriended me in the Vale, never told me about," she asked suddenly suspicious of his claims.

Sandor looked furiously abashed, at a lost for words. She reached over and picked up a wine jug near his bed. She took a swill of it before handing it over to him. He took a long drink from it and then answered her, "All I know of pleasing a woman, I learned during my time in the Quiet Isle, from the Elder Brother."

She raised her eyebrow at his dramatically absurd confession and they both burst out into laughter.

"The Elder Brother and I were cut from a similar cloth. We were younger sons from minor knightly houses, our prowess in battle matched only by our thirst for drink. Sad men with life stories written in red, in blood and in wine. Because we were similar in so many ways, he could not believe that we were not similar in all ways. The Elder Brother was not an ugly man, the love of women came easy to him. There was a highborn girl who loved him and whom he wished to marry, but he could not due to his lack of fortune. Besides the highborn girl, there were others in his life - camp followers, whores, dissolute women."

"I confessed to him all the evil that I had committed, no secret was left undisturbed. I told him many things that would startle and frighten you. But amongst my many sins there was a lack of disgraces with women. I never forced any woman, could count on one hand my encounters with whores. He thought I was keeping something back, some crime so monstrous that all my other deeds would pale in comparison. I was borne Clegane after all, Gregor's countless, brutal rapes, were held against me, his blood proof that I was guilty of something. He probed and pressed me for weeks on end, until at last I confessed about you, about that night, and how I took the song from you by force. He was confused by my guilt, and he thought I was speaking in metaphors. So he pressed me again about you, about the song, but each time in different ways. By song, did I mean I embraced you lecherously? When I said no, he did not believe me and asked again in a different manner. Did I mount you unnaturally? No, I replied but he persisted. Did I touch you on your breasts or between your legs? When I said no, he asked did I kiss you between the legs or on your breasts? And so on and on. I would leave confession inflamed by my desire for you, I'd lie awake imagining what it would be like if you were mine, my lady, and I could do with you all those things he described."

"Is this Elder Brother still alive, Sandor?" she asked at last, after her fit of laughter subsided.

"Yes, he's still on the Quiet Isle. Why do you ask?"

"Oh, Winterfell has had no septon since the death of poor Septon Chayle at the hands of Theon. You know the North's population has declined by one-third due to the wars and the plague. Everyone here is trying to have babies now. The maesters say that a woman's womb is more likely to quicken if she's had her pleasure. I think this Elder Brother could do much good work here. Northmen could surely benefit from his instruction and ...," she would have continued, despite the tears of laughter that were streaming down her face, but he grabbed a pillow and muffled her speech with it.


	6. Sansa 4

Bran loved the crypts under Winterfell. He often went there to hold court with the dead, their father, their brothers, the long line of Lords of Winterfell and Kings of Winter stretching back into the age of heroes. For Sansa, the crypts had always filled her with terror. When she had been a child, Robb had taken her and Arya and Bran all the way down to end, to the place where their own tombs would lie. Robb had whispered to her _This is where the dead walk_ and she shivered in fear. A spirit had stepped out of an open tomb, pale and white and moaning for blood. Sansa had shrieked and run away, quickly up the stairs, leaving her siblings there. Later, Arya had told her the spirit was just Jon, covered in white flour. Sansa had been angry at Robb and Jon but they tickled and teased her and at last she had to admit it had been a marvelous jape.

She felt foolish and ashamed for being so afraid. Arya and even Bran, no more than a babe of three then, had remained and faced the terrors of the dark. But Sansa had run, and the Kings of Winter witnessed her lack of courage. She was a woman now, but she could not go to the crypts without feeling a sense of dread, as if she went going to stand before the judgment of the Father of the Faith of the Seven. The Kings of Winter sat on their stone thrones, with their stone wolves at their feet and their iron swords across their laps, their ice eyes upon her, condemning her for all her frailties.

Bran had his special place, and so did Sansa. Sansa's favorite place was also where the dead walked. It was the ancient lichyard beneath the shadow of the First Keep. No Kings sitting in judgment were buried here, instead the lichyard was the final resting place of their faithful servants. She went there so often that she had a stone bench built especially for her. She enjoyed sitting there, at peace, surrounded by those that would protect her. She loved gazing at all the headstones spotted with pale lichen. There was one headstone that was her favorite. It was the headstone of Lady.

Sandor found her here today, as she knew he would. He sat down on the bench beside her. Sansa had a linen handkerchief in her lap, it held a piece of her favorite treat, a lemoncake. She gave him the handkerchief with the last piece of lemoncake in it. He took it and ate the lemoncake, but did not return the handkerchief to her. Instead he held the linen handkerchief in his hands, inspecting it with a strange kind of wonder. The handkerchief was an example of her early needlework and the design was executed childishly and without the sophistication of her adult work. She was surprised that he should be so impressed by it. The handkerchief was gray linen, embroidered with a direwolf, but the direwolf was not gray, it was reddish brown.

He thumbed the embroidery reverently. "Your hair?" he rasped. She nodded. It was a silly experiment that came to her one snowy day when she was eight, to use her hair as thread. He said nothing more, but did not return the handkerchief to her, instead he put it away in his person, careful not to catch the embroidery thread with his nails.

They sat in silence for a long moment until Sansa could not stand it anymore. She had to tell him.

"Sandor, last night you asked me if I had the courage to lift more than my skirts for you. I did have the courage, I went to Bran, weeks ago, to speak to him about my love for you. But he stopped me before I could say anything, he bade me of not to speak of things that would force him to action. Instead he asked me to follow him to the crypts of Winterfell to stand before the tombs of my father and my father's sister, Lyanna," she said.

"You have heard of the story of my Aunt Lyanna and Rhaegar Targaryen? It's famous, but there are details the singers do not tell. The bones of Lyanna Stark lie beneath the crypts of Winterfell, as one day my bones will lie. At great physical cost, my father himself brought her bones back, all the way from the Tower of Joy near the Red Mountains of Dorne. He laid her to rest besides the bodies of his father and his brother, slain by the Mad King Aerys. He had a statue commissioned of her to decorate her grave, though that honor had been reserved only for the lord and kings of Winterfell. He did all of this for her. My father loved his sister Lyanna, deeply and abidingly. "

"But when the time came to name his children, who did he honor? Robert Baratheon, Jon Arryn, his brother Brandon and his father Rickard. For his beloved sister, nothing. His daughters were named after other Stark women, from prior generations. There is a Lyanna Mormont, but there will never be another Lyanna Stark. Amongst her kin, those who share her blood, the name has fallen into disrepute. This was my father's judgment: he loved his sister, but did not respect her for she chose love above duty and above honor."

"Bran is no different from my father and he wears his lord's face with as much gravity as Lord Eddard ever did. If he had to chose to between my happiness and honor and duty, how do you think he would have chosen? See before you my father's choice," Sansa said, pointing to Lady's grave.

Sandor stood now, his face twitching. "I will speak to him," he said, his voice frightened her with its calmness, there was a silent rage and a hushed violence beneath it.

"Then you would force him to act against you when he would rather leave us in peace. He would not punish you, he's too good for that. Your reward will be gold and exile, instead of Hornwood and service to him. Bran would petition Tyrion, as Lord of Casterly Rock, to return to you your father's lands, they are yours by right. You will live out your days in the Westerlands, in the place where you were born, amongst those who fear and despise you. Who cannot conceive of regarding you as anything but a butcher, Joffrey's Hound, the Mad Dog of Saltpans."

She held out her hand to him and he took it. "Does Bran make a sacrifice of my happiness? His choice doesn't matter. For I choose. This is my sacrifice to make and I make it willingly." She kiss his hands as if in supplication, begging for his forgiveness.

"I am a daughter of Winterfell, my loves cannot be as inconsequential as if I were Minisa Liddle. Even my father could not wed he as he would choose nor did my brother Rickon have his choice of bride. There is no true freedom, only children or fools think there is so," she spoke. The calmness of her voice surprised her, when she played this moment in her mind early today she had been tears. But no tears came to her now that the hour had approached. She had made her decision, had grieved for it, and now must live through it with courage and dignity.

"You have served the Starks for four years, do you know us so little? We are forever mistrustful of joy or happiness, lest the taste provide too addictive. What are my house words, Sandor?"

"Winter is coming," he rasped. And then they spoke no more. But she stood on her tiptoes and kissed him, deeply and passionately, though they were out in the open. It was sweet to savor taste of summer on his lips.

* * *

And so Winter came at last, not in truth, but in spirit for Sansa.

The visitors poured through the castle gates, three hundred strong, a pride of bannermen and knights, of sworn swords and freeriders. Over their heads a dozen banners whipped back and forth in the northern wind, emblazoned with the sigil of House Targaryen, the three-headed dragon breathing flames, red on black.

Sansa observed the riders approaching, the memories of the visit of King Robert so strong in her mind that she half expected to see the bright golden hair of Ser Jaime Lannister, as well a man wearing that long lost dog's helm of her beloved. But Jaime Lannister was long dead, and Sandor standing a few feet from her. Sansa was on the look out for Tyrion but could not seem to find him. She only recognized a handful of the riders and the sheer physical diversity of the riders astonished and excited her. There were faces of peoples she had seldom seen in King's Landing, the Dothraki and the peoples of the Free Cities.

The Targaryen regime had shaken up the power structure that she had known when she lived in King's Landing. She was indifferent about this, remembering those faces that turned away from her as Joffrey abused and debased her. Sansa suspected that there was much trepidation at court at the prospect of her becoming the Younger Queen. Though still in Winterfell, she was already being courted by those seeking to earn her future favor. One such was Margaery Tyrell, who had written Sansa a letter beseeching for a renewal of their friendship. The letter was on the surface superficial, but real currents of fear lay beneath. The Tyrells were tolerated at court, for they had given Daenerys the head of Tommen Baratheon, but their ambitions were thwarted by Tyrion's position. Sansa had not replied to Margaery's letter with words, but with a gift, a rare black amethyst. Sansa thought that the rose could stand to lose some of its bloom and good dose of anxiety was the least of what Margaery deserved.

But in truth, Margaery had no need fear that Sansa's ascension would mean her death or disgrace. The lioness had told her _The only way to keep your people loyal is to make certain they fear you more than they do the enemy._ And the child Sansa had disputed her - love was a surer route to the people's loyalty than fear. While writing her History of the War, Sansa long pondered the notions of vengeance and mercy, the rightness of ruling through fear or through love. Her father had been merciful to Cersei Lannister and had died for it. Yet Robb had been merciful to Osha and this mercy saved their brothers. Tywin Lannister was a ruthless and efficient ruler and his House had ruled the Seven Kingdoms. But their rule had but lasted but for an hour, House Lannister was near extinguished now, while the Starks thrived in Winterfell. Sansa did not know who was right ultimately, but she suspected the child had more wisdom than the lionness. _If I am ever a queen, I'll make them love me,_ the child had declared and Sansa was determined that it would be so.

At last, Aegon and Daenerys entered through the castle gate on foot. Aegon was everything Lord Davos had said he would be, a maiden's fantasy, lithe and handsome with the typical Targaryen coloring of silver hair and violet eyes. The same striking coloring was present in Daenerys but Sansa had difficulty reconciling the image of the what she imagined the most beautiful woman in the world should look like with the woman before her. _The singers have lied_ , she thought, _but I should have expected it. When is a powerful woman plain?_ Daenerys was of the same age as Aegon but she looked ten years older. She was very thin and gaunt, her face sharply sculpted. While Aegon's expression was warm and charming, Daenerys was strangely flat and her eyes were hard like chips of stone.

Aegon and Daenerys formally greeted her brother King Brandon and then each member of the Stark family. When Daenerys reached Sansa, she looked at her speculatively and spoke, "Sansa Stark, I am delighted to meet you at last. I see that we were not wrong to honor you with our suit. How sweet you are, such a pretty innocent, why no one can resist you. It is as if the Starks have conjured you from thin air to seduce us. _The Maid brought him forth a girl as supple as a willow with eyes like deep pools, and Hugor declared that he would have her for his bride. So the Mother made her fertile and the Crone foretold that she would bear the king four-and-forty mighty sons._ "

Sansa kept silent, not knowing what to make of Daenery's strange speech or her odd demeanor. Daenerys had recited a religious passage from _The Seven Pointed-Star,_ the words were harmless enough but out of place and her manner and tone of delivery filled Sansa with discomfort. For some reason she could not explain, she thought of King Aerys. Daenerys' father had showed great promise at the start of his reign, but he had grown increasingly unstable - cruel and manic and subject to uncontrollable fits of rage. And then in the corner of Sansa's eye, she saw behind Daenerys and Aegon a pallid man she unquestionably recognized. _Lord Hallyne,_ Sansa thought with dread, _Daenerys has brought pyromancers to Winterfell._


	7. Sansa 5

No sooner had the formalities of greeting been completed then Daenerys turned to Sansa's brother Bran and said to her host, "Take me to him, King Brandon, I would pay my respects."

Her brother Bran, understood Daenerys immediately. Aegon moved to follow her, but Daenerys looked at him and the look arrested him in his place. "I wish to be accompanied only by King Brandon," she declared loudly and none would gainsay her.

Seated on his horse, Brandon Stark, called the King in the North, called the Crippled King, called the Winged Wolf, lead the Mother of Dragons away from the throng. They went in the direction of the godswood, where the bones of the green and bronze dragon Rhaegal, the dragon Bran had ridden, lay.

Sansa faced Aegon now, they were surrounded by hundreds of people, but she felt as if they only two people in the world. He was silent for a long moment, staring at her, not a muscle in his face moving. Sansa moved to bow to him, but he stilled her. Instead, he knelt on the ground to kiss her hand.

"Princess Sansa, you cannot know how I've longed for this moment," he said, letting out a long extinguished sigh. He voice was as beautiful as his person, deep and soft and crooning. In the corner of her eye, she saw her sisters, her sister Arya and her goodsister, Shireen Baratheon, glance at each other, smile mischievously and sigh in appreciation in tandem. _A maiden's fantasy and oh how he must want me_ , she thought, for his every expression spoke of the nervousness of a man in love.

* * *

The party left Winterfell at dawn to fish. Aegon had lived with fisherfolk and was mad for fishing. Accompanying him were Sansa, Arya, Rickon and Shireen. Bran's was not able to enjoy physical pursuits and Daenerys claimed illness and requested to stay behind.

The Targaryens had been here for a week, and while Aegon was often in Sansa's presence, Daenerys was not. Daenerys demeanor was distant and distracted and Sansa's requests for her company were politely rebuffed. Daenerys spent her days instead walking around the godswood or the crypts of Winterfell or the sept. And while she rebuffed Sansa's company, she eagerly sat close to Bran during suppers in the Great Hall. They conversed with each other almost exclusively and on the ocassion that Sansa could catch their conversations, the subject matter seemed to be only of Rhaegal. _The dragons were the only children she will ever give birth to and now they are dead and gone,_ Sansa thought, understanding something of Daenerys' torment. Her wariness of Daenerys remained but at least it was not fear. There was a sad, lost, melancholy to the Dragon Queen that Sansa found poignant and it elicited a fervent desire in Sansa to comfort her.

Aegon was determined to charm them and charm he certainly did. He taught Rickon how to hook a worm and Shireen how to clean a fish. The fish that they caught, he prepared and cooked himself for them. Sansa had to admit it was the most delicious fish she ever had eaten. Her mother's people, the Tullys of Riverrun, would have loved him.

He was most courteous to Shireen, lifting her by the arms, when they chanced to come across a puddle. He swooshed her across the puddle and then dropped her gently on dry land. She giggled in sheer joy to receive his attentions, and then blushed profusely when Aegon kissed her on the left side of her cheek, where the skin was gray and black due to the greyscale infection she had suffered as an infant.

Sansa thought that he would court her by calling her the Rose of Winterfell or praising her beauty in some other manner, but he said none of those platitudes. Instead they spoke of serious matters, of their families and their experiences, of history and the future marvels that seemed to be but around the corner. The age of magic was dead, and it seemed to her that the age of reason would replace it, for there were inventions and developments in King's Landing that would have astonished her parents. Some inventions, like a device that could tell time and would clang noisily on the hour, seemed so marvelous, it was a counterfeit to magic and yet surpassed it. _Aegon is the King the times demand_ , she mused, it was if he was brought forth by destiny.

Aegon also spoke movingly of Daenerys. She could deduce from his words that their marriage was not happy for either party. He said that he was Daenerys' husband, but not her lover. But there was respect and it was enough for their relationship, yet still he had hoped to find the love with the Younger Queen that eluded him with the Elder. Aegon took pains to explain to that Sansa would be honored by both of them and no other wife would follow after her.

Their conversation became flirtatious only once. Arya and Rickon and Shireen were swimming in the lake. They begged Sansa to join them but she declined, instead preferring to sit by the lake, nibbling on a lemoncake and watching the merry swimmers. Aegon sat next to her.

"My Princess Sansa, do you know in King's Landing, the singers have made a song of you? They say you are a witch who killed a false illborn king with a spell and afterward changed into a wolf with big leather wings like a bat and flew out a tower window," he said, teasing her.

She laughed at how the truth of Joffrey's death and her escape changed into this child's tale of magic and transformation. But the memory of that night and then the days and years that followed when she was Alayne Stone unsettled her. Thoughts of Littlefinger and the years she spent as his creature always filled her with revulsion.

"Perhaps the singers were right. I am a witch. I did not kill an evil king but I have slain a demon. And yet I still live to tell the tale," she said, her voice queer and distant. _My only regret is that I could slay him but once_ , she thought with uncharacteristic bloodthirstiness.

Aegon stared into her with his violet eyes, they were grave but compassionate, capturing an expression her father Eddard Stark wore. It seemed as if he understood her instinctively. He replied, "There is no shame in slaying a demon only in yielding service to one."

She turned away from him unnerved by his ability to ferret out all her secrets.

Aegon continued, saying, "Do you know why I wish to marry you Sansa? Perhaps you think it is because of your beauty or your bloodlines. Those things are not your true worth. When Daenerys bade me seek another wife, so that our House might continue, I asked Tyrion who should I wed. He told me Sansa Stark, that you would make a good queen and a good wife for the man that had the sense to love you. He gave me copy of the History you've been writing. I've enjoyed reading it immensely, I too am a scholar of the past. The magnanimity of spirit you showed towards those who were your foes moved me. Too often history is a victor's tale and all the vanquished needs must be villains. I knew after I finished it that here was a woman who was equal to the task of being the Younger Queen, of repairing a nation, of ruling with love and not fear."

Sansa remained silent but his words had stirred her. Before Aegon, only Sandor had ever loved her for herself.

She was saved from having to answer by Rickon's loud call. Arya held Shireen on top of her shoulders and was fighting with Rickon in the water. Rickon begged Aegon to join them. "Aegon, come in the water, we need another!"

Aegon begged off. Instead he picked up a piece of lemoncake and was inspecting it with some indifference.

"These are a great delicacy in the North, my lord. And a favorite of myself and my family," she said.

"They look rather plain," he replied. Aegon had lived in Pentos and the foods of that city were said to be the most delicious and decadent in the world. The foods of the North, her favorites like lemoncake and beef and bacon pie, must seem poor victuals in comparison.

"Ah, but I have cast a spell on them and have turned it into your favorite dish," she teased, wiggling her fingers over the lemoncake.

He smiled at her jape, and ate a piece but she could tell it did not impress him. "Hmm, sour and dry as I suspected. This is poor witchcraft, lady. I have seen better in a village fair. But if you are a witch, prove it to me, give me a potion to make a maid love," he spoke to her, his voice seductive.

And then he leaned in to kiss her. His kiss elicited a strange reaction, a combination of impersonal arousal but a repugnance at the same time. For she already loved another and had none to spare for him. He felt her lack of desire and made no move to deepen the kiss. She turned her face away from his to break the kiss. She looked down on the ground and forced herself to blush so that he might mistake her repugnance for maidenly shyness.

He took her hand in his and kissed it ardently. And then he murmured to her, "Tonight we dine alone, Sansa. I look forward to giving you pleasure such as you have never known."

Mercifully, Arya came upon them at that moment. They were staring at each other, when Arya poked him with a long wooden stick.

"Aegon, they say you know the art of Water Dancing. Show us if this is true or some lie thought up to pad your glory," Arya said, her voice was warm and carefree in a way Sansa hadn't heard for a long time. Arya stood sideways then and held the stick in her hand, her form and stance graceful and perfect, showing Aegon that she was no babe in this art.

He laughed at her, but it was not a mocking laugh but one of admiration. "Truly, you Stark women are a marvel. But Sansa, my witch, will you not save me?" he turned to her.

"I make no protection spells," she declared in mock seriousness, her hands pushing him to take up Arya's challenge.

By this time, Rickon and Shireen had gathered around them and started yelling, "Dance! Dance! Dance!"

Aegon had no choice but to catch the stick Arya threw at him. He moved into his water dancer's stance, only presenting his side to his foe. Sansa watched as Arya and Aegon dueled. She loved watching Sandor fight in the training yard in Winterfell, he hacked and hammered at his opponent with a ferocity that had never failed to arouse her, he was so strong and dominating, no man could stand before him. The water dance was equally impressive but elegant in a way the knight's dance lacked. She had never seen anyone move as swiftly and as gracefully as Arya, ducking and thrusting here and there. They danced across the lake while the other Starks watched, hooting and clapping and hollering. Sansa watched Aegon duel, he was a match for Arya, and a pleasure to watch. His silver hair caught the sunlight and on his face was the sheer joyful intensity of being alive and being young. She thought to herself, _Here is a man, here is a true knight._

* * *

Sansa returned to her bedroom after her private supper with Aegon to find Arya awake and waiting for her in bed. In Sansa's hands she carried a cup filled with a hot liquid.

Sansa was ill at ease, too many tumultuous events had occurred today, leaving her tired and brittle. They had returned from the fishing trip, she was walking to her rooms alone when Sandor ambushed her, coming out from an alcove and pulling her quickly into it. He pushed her against the wall, kissing her and caressing her. She tried to push him away, but her movements only seemed to excite him more.

"I'm going to fuck you," he warned her. He hoisted her up, hooking his arms under her thighs, the weight of his body pinning her against the wall. He briefly freed one hand and ripped her silk smallclothes. Her eyes widened as she felt the head of his member begin to enter her. "Let me in. _Now_."

This was wrong, she knew it, but she was aroused by his ferocity. She took him though it was a sore burn at first. She bit his neck as he pumped his hips into her, so no one could hear her sounds. She closed her eyes, wanting to just be a creature of physical sensation, with no regards for right or wrong. Her thoughts condensed to _oh gods ... yes, yes, yes_. She culminated quickly and then felt his body pump with increasing force. He climaxed not soon afterward with an explosive breath. She struggled against him to force him to release her. "Let me go," she told him as she squirmed.

But he held her tighter in his embrace, "Please," he said though what he was exactly begging for, to be inside her longer or for something else, she did not know.

He let her down at last. The swollen tissues down there released him slowly, as if her body was protesting what her mind and voice had commanded. The aftermath was silent, filled only with the harshness of their breathing. After she composed herself, she gave him a warning, "This is at an end. You must accept it. You'll not find me naive enough to be alone again."

All week she had seen him hovering around her, hiding in shadows, watching her when she was in plain sight. He was stalking her and with new-found clarity she realized that he had always stalked her. Even as far back as when she was a girl in King's Landing, he had been lurking about, hiding in shadows, it was by no chance accident that he found her near every moment she had been alone. It was wise of her to refuse him when he wanted to become a member of her Kingsguard. He would have stalked her like a prey animal in King's Landing while she was Queen, inflamed by his jealousy. She would always have to be on guard, for he was not man she could have given terms to, he would have taken her whenever he saw the chance. _He would have hunted me to the ends of the world, if I had but let him_ , she thought.

"So how was your evening with Aegon?" Arya asked excitedly. This surprised Sansa, Aegon had obviously won Arya over, which was no mean feat.

"It was pleasant. We ate and talked a great deal. He had his own cook prepare supper. The food was delicious but very rich." Aegon obviously enjoyed food, she never eaten so well or so extravagantly.

"And then?" Arya asked, rolling her eyes in frustration.

"He told me about the mummer's show he had arranged for our entertainment next week. He knows I like stories, he composed a story he thought I would enjoy. He said that the show included some marvelous things that I had never seen before. He called them Yi Ti flowers, exotic flowers that only bloom at night."

"Stupid, I don't care about the food or the mummers or flowers or whatever boring things you _talked_ about. What about his promise to give you pleasure you have never known?" Arya said, her voice filled with prurient interest.

"Oh I hadn't realized you overheard that part. Well by chance, here it is. I brought it to you so you may know it for your self," Sansa said, handing Arya the cup of hot liquid. Sansa had to admit lemoncakes were inferior to what was in the cup.

Arya stared suspiciously at the cup but took a drink of it. She closed her eyes as the hot liquid traveled down her throat. After she finished, Sansa saw Arya move her mouth in appreciation. "Mmm," Arya moaned. She gave Sansa her verdict "its delicious, wondrous even. I've never tasted anything like it. What is it?"

"Aegon says that traders brought it to Pentos from Sothoryos. It comes from a bean so rare and costly that it used as tribute for taxes in some Sothoryosi cities. In Pentos, they take the ground bean and mix it with hot milk and sugar. He said the Pentoshi call the drink hot cacao."

Arya burst out laughing at Sansa's explanation. "He did not lie. It was truly a pleasure you have never known."

She smiled at her sister and at her memory of her evening with Aegon. He had behaved like the perfect gallant. She had to admit she enjoyed his company. Sansa dressed for bed and climbed into it. She felt Arya's hand in hers. They turned to face each other.

"I like him, Sansa," she whispered.

"I like him too, Arya," Sansa said. She wanted to say more but didn't know if it was wise to let Arya in on her confidences.

"But ...?" Arya asked, seemingly knowing there was more.

"But I never asked for this cup to pass to me, and now I must drink from it," Sansa replied.

"You would refuse it if you could? Even if it had pleasures you have never known?" Arya asked in bewilderment.

"I would. Even if it had pleasures I have never known," Sansa responded. Sandor's seed still was within her though she taken precautions so that no child would ever be engendered by it. She did not want to wash it out. _He's the Dornishman's wife. I've tasted him, now I cannot enjoy the taste of another_ , she thought with resignation.

"Then you are a fool," Arya replied, but there was no anger or mock in her voice.


	8. Sansa 6

In the Great Hall of Winterfell, Daenerys presented her brother Bran a gift, a longsword. Its scabbard was made of cherrywood, gold, and oiled red leather, studded with golden lions' head whose eyes were rubies. The Hall fell silent as Bran unsheathed the blade, red and black ripples in the steel shimmered in the morning light.

Sansa eyed the garish sword with greedy exultation, remembering the feeling of disgust and nausea the day of Joffrey's wedding when she saw that the King's Executioner was no longer carrying her father's greatsword Ice. _What has Ser Illyn done with my father's sword?_ she had asked Tyrion, clutching his arm in growing alarm and grief. He did not answer her, though he had the grace to look ashamed, and that look had told her all that she needed to know. The Lannisters had desecrated her father's sword, as they had desecrated his body, and from Ice two longswords were forged, Oathkeeper and Widow's Wail. Oathkeeper had been returned to them years ago, by the Maid of Tarth, but Widow's Wail had remained in Lannister possession. The sword had been given to and named by Joffrey, and upon Joffrey's death, Tommen had inherited it. It had been one of Sansa's most fervent desires that her family should possess Widow's Wail, so that Ice could be reforged from those two halves.

At the time of her father's death, only seven houses in the Seven Kingdom's were in possession of a sword of the same worth as Ice, and men like Gerion Lannister had wasted their lives looking for their Houses' lost ancestral Valryian swords. Tyrion Lannister had returned her father's bones to her brother Robb, but he refused him the sword Ice. Sansa had told Lord Davos that Widow's Wail must be return them before marriage negotiations could commence and the Targaryens had heeded her. Sansa felt that her father's spirit would have no peace unless both bones and sword were reunited. At last, she could proudly declare to his tomb that his children had recovered yet another birthright, that had been cruelly stolen. Bran handed the sword to Rickon and the boy took the blade and thrust the sword above his head, breaking into a boyish grin.

 _Sandor says Rickon's fierce and strong and shows great promise as a swordsman_ , Sansa thought with pride. Sansa smiled at her little brother, the Wild Wolf, knowing that he would one day wield Ice with deadly skill. Rickon had been the first to return to Winterfell. Sansa had been the second. After the death of Littlefinger, her mother's uncle Brynden Tully had pressed her hard to remain in the Vale, her fate to become the wife of that callow knight of summer, the new Lord Arryn, Harrold Hardyng.

 _I am your lord_ , the Blackfish had commanded her, _it is my right to make your match, a good match, a high lord, young, handsome..._ But she denied her uncle and that future, and made her escape with the Maid of Tarth as her sworn shield. By chance, they had encountered Sandor on road and he too had sworn himself into her service. The three of them traveled north, to flock to the banner of King Stannis Baratheon, who held Winterfell. At the time, she had to thought herself to be the rightful Lady of Winterfell. If she proclaimed Stannis to be her liege lord, then all the North would pledge themselves to him as their King. Instead, she discovered to her unsurpassed elation, that she was not the Lady of Winterfell, she was merely the new Lord of Winterfell's sister. Rickon was there, Lord Davos had delivered him from Skaagos, and fate had seemingly delivered him from death. She remembered when she first saw him, standing with his direwolf Shaggydog, his eyes were bright and auburn hair long and unruly. She could not believe her eyes, for she had long thought herself alone, the last Stark, the lone wolf, her pack dead, their corpses dishonored before being buried in unmarked graves.

She was afraid Rickon would not recognize her, he was only a babe of three when they had last met. But he broke out into a boyish grin, the very same grin he wore today, at the sight of her tear-stricken face. In the months that followed, she kept him so close to her that he was never out of her sight. She wanted nothing more than to bask in those boyish grins. She had feared that they would be as strangers to each other. But those fears were unfounded, Rickon had loved her so easily and so surely that it was as if they had never parted. And then Arya had arrived. And then Bran, to supplant Rickon's claim, as Rickon had supplanted Sansa's. From the distant corners of the Seven Kingdoms, the wolves returned to Winterfell, driven there like iron to a lodestone. All of the wolves had returned to Winterfell ultimately, like little rivers returning to their source the ocean. _Though not all returned alive,_ Sansa thought, _Robb and Jon_ , the red-hot jab of memory piercing her, and felt as if she was an ant before the mouth of a great fire, so strong and burning was her grief. She had to take a deep breath, in order to control the turmoil inside her. _Now is not the time_ , she told herself, though her grief was ever unpredictable in its bite.

After the ceremony, Daenerys turned to face her brother Bran, as he sat on his throne, a polished stone seat with direwolves carved into the headrests.

"King Brandon, we have returned what was yours. I ask that you give us the same courtesy and return what is ours," Daenerys spoke, her voice was clear and filled the Great Hall. The fear that Sansa had felt in their first meeting came back to her, her nails digging into her palms in tension.

"I ask for the bones of Jon Targaryen." _Oh gods_ , she thought, _this is more terrible than I could have expected._ Bran looked at Daenerys, with shock and mounting anger, his nostrils flared and his face became stern and terrible, the lord's face. Sansa turned to see Aegon's expression, he was deathly pale, the expression on his face revealing the disturbance they all felt. So he had no knowledge of this, she thought, relived that he had not deceived her.

Arya stood behind Bran's throne and she spoke up now, her voice bristling with outrage. "Jon Targaryen, you mean Jon _Snow_ ," she threw back.

"I mean Jon Targaryen. He was the trueborn son of my brother Rhaegar, all men know this now. He was _the Hero_ , Azor Ahai reborn, chosen to fight the Others, to fight the Darkness. I will take his bones and build him a monument near King's Landing, a circle of stone under the sun and clouds, where all men may visit and honor him. When I die, I will lie there next to him, so that the Dragons may be reunited in death, in the manner in which they were so cruelly denied in life."

Sansa felt stricken, she stood still, but her mind yelled fiercely _No, No, No_. Beside her, Arya trembled with rage, her hand on Needle, her expression murderous.

Bran's fixed Daenerys with a stony glare. He spoke and his lord's voice boomed in the hushed silence of the Great Hall. "Queen Daenerys. You were not there when he died, I was. It was his dying wish to be returned to Winterfell. You would have us deny him and desecrate his grave for your own glory?"

Aegon spoke now, his demeanor revealing the conflict he felt. _But Daenerys is his Queen, his allegiance will lie with her_ , Sansa predicted. "Winterfell was the place he came from. But he did not die for Winterfell, or even for the Seven Kingdoms. He died for the realms of men. We ask that you honor his death by permitting all men to honor him. King's Landing is the capital of the old Seven Kingdoms, all manner of men pass through there, many times many more than travel through Winterfell -"

Arya cut him short, yelling, "King's Landing? He never traveled past the Trident in his life. Why should he in death lie in a place he knew not, next to woman he's never met?"

"We can divide his bones, part will stay in Winterfell, part will go to King's Landing. Jon Snow, Jon Targaryen, have it as you will. He was both a dragon and a wolf, as his blood belonged to both Houses, cannot his bones belong to both?" Aegon offered.

But he was quickly reprimanded by Daenerys, she turned to him and said "How dare you speak for me? You are my consort, not by master. If Jon had lived it would be I who have two husbands, rather you than you who have two wives."

She then turned to Bran, "You claim him now in death, but you did not claim him in life. Jon Snow, you call him. You do not deserve him. You mock his memory by burying him in the darkness of your crypts, where none may honor him except by your leave. All of his bones will return with us to King's Landing. I will bury him in the light, the sun itself will decorate his grave. I insist upon this."

"No. You have no rights here. Daenerys the Conqueror they call you, but you did not conqueror the North. You southrons call me the Crippled King. So you call it true, I cannot the bend knee to you," Bran replied, his with voice dripping with scorn. He was a cripple, yet to Sansa he seemed tall beyond measurement.

"Shall it be war between us, then, for who commands? Beware my force in that battle, _infant_." And with that parting remark, Daenerys left the Hall.

Aegon remained behind. The Great Hall was still with agitation, Sansa could feel the chill in the air.

"Aegon you do not speak for Daenerys, but does Daenerys speak for you?" Sansa heard Lord Davos say.

"No, my lord, she does not. I knew nothing of this, I promise you. King Brandon, please for the sake of our kingdoms, for the sake of the memory of our kinsman, do not do anything rash. I swear to you and before the Gods Old and New, that Daenerys will do likewise," he said. He bowed then and left the hall.

Sansa was in a tumult, sickened by the events of the morning and the ills that might follow afterward. She leaned and whispered to Bran now, "Let me speak to Daenerys, perhaps she requires a quiet word. She is hero too, as great our Jon. Honor her heroism with a measure of your patience."

Sansa waited until the late afternoon to see Daenerys, she hoped that the Dragon Queen's anger would have cooled with a little time, so that she might be more agreeable to reason.

She paced back and forth in her solar, her mind playing how best to handle the unpredictable and fiery Daenerys. She heard a knock on the door, and in entered their maester, Maester Samwell. Sansa regarded him coolly, she was certain that it was he who had betrayed her to Bran. She had come to Maestar Samwell requesting both moontea and his discretion. He had promised her both but only delivered on the first. She was hurt by his betrayal. She thought they were friends, they enjoyed each others company, being both near in age and near in interests, bonding over books and music and kittens and lemoncakes. He had told her once that she reminded him of one of his sisters. This pleased her deeply, for he had been close to Jon and she wanted those who Jon had liked, to like her. She had never mocked his great girth like others and always angrily defended him. _Maester Piggy or Maester Too-Fat_ , some called him, and in response she would give them her lord's face. It was effective and many a man or a woman squirmed uneasily under it, cowed by the reminder of Sansa' power and position and how she might use it.

"Sansa," he said, his voice quiet and grave, "Daenerys is very ill."

Sansa stayed with Daenerys all day and all night, acting as one of Daenerys' handmaidens. Aegon came and went into the room occasionally, they spoke a little here and there. But while Sansa was consumed by anxiety, never daring to leave Daenerys' side but for a few short moments, Aegon remained calm and levelheaded. He gave commands to Sansa and Maester Samwell for their care of Daenerys with the efficiency of a general well practiced in this type of warfare.

Daenerys illness went on for two more days. They gave her food, but she vomited most of it. They gave her water, down it went her throat and out it came from her body, brown and foul. And the blood ...the sight of so much red was horrible and terrifying to Sansa. _I took a lover and called myself a woman_ , she thought knowing now how little she knew of a woman's lot, birth and moonblood. _I am only a little girl._

"I will never have a little girl. I was the Mother of Dragons and they too are dead," Daenerys cried as if she could read Sansa's thoughts. Then she writhed in pain and her moans filled the chamber.

Maester Samwell was standing in the corner of the room, hunched over a basin that held the contents of Daenerys' womb. He heard Sansa approach and quickly tried to cover the basin with a cloth. Sansa looked into his eyes, they wore an expression of disbelief and horror. They gazed at each other, his eyes pleading with her to walk away, to not look. She touched the cloth that covered the basin and lifted it. Inside the basin, there was blood, thicker and blacker than any moonblood, with clots as large as Sansa's little finger. And within that blood, Sansa could just see a tiny creature, not quite human, with small leather wings like the wings of a bat.

Sansa felt a stab of revulsion, so strong that she thought she would vomit. But it passed and was replaced by pity and compassion. _Oh poor Daenerys, so this is the nature of your barrenness. The seed can take root, but the babies are born and fed to the darkness._

Daenerys went in and out of conscious throughout that night. When she was awake she muttered incoherently, arguing and pleading to ghosts that were not there. At one point, she cried most piteously, "Mother, Mother, Mother Above."

Sansa realized that Daenerys was not crying for her own mother, Queen Rhaella, who had died giving birth to her, but praying for _the Mother_ , the Mother of them all. The Mother was as aspect of the Seven Faced God, she represented motherhood and nurturing. Women prayed to her for fertility and for compassion.

"Shh, shh," Sansa cooed, she held Daenerys now, rocking her in her arms, rubbing her shoulders and kissing her forehead. She sang to the Dragon Queen, as she would sing to her little brother Rickon, her voice soft and lilting.

_Gentle Mother, strength of women,_

_help our daughters through this fray,_

_soothe the wrath and tame the fury,_

_teach us all a kinder way._

Daenerys came out of the fog of her pain and anguish after Sansa finished her hymn. The Dragon Queen smiled at her, cupping Sansa's left cheek, her smile sad and grateful. She whispered to her, "Sansa, sweet sister, sweet mother of mercy." Sansa tipped a cup into Daenerys' lips, milk of the poppy. It calmed her enough to sleep.


	9. Sansa 7

"I had not expected it to be so warm here, Sansa. Even the walls are warm to the touch." Daenerys said to her as she stepped into her hot and steaming bath.

Since her miscarriage, Daenerys was ever kind and solicitous to please Sansa. No longer was her company rebuffed, but instead courted with zeal. Sansa could hardly refuse her, not with so much bad blood between Daenerys and her family. Bran did not have to say it, but both Aegon and Sansa knew that their marriage was a diminishing hope. This did not make her glad though, her fear of the prospect that whatever tenuous bond of friendship existed that between Winterfell and King's Landing would be destroyed was too great. For the sake of the peace, Sansa was most gracious in receiving Daenerys' invitations. They spent much of their time together alone, Daenerys had dismissed her handmaidens and there was a tense undercurrent of discord between Daenerys and Aegon that implied that his presence was not wanted.

Daenerys was still too weak to leave her rooms, so much of their time was spent bathing. Daenerys was very fond of hot baths, as the dragonlords of Valryia were of old. When ladies bathe, there was not much else to do but talk and nibble on sweets. Daenerys had been most free and easy with Sansa, and her conversation was surprisingly short of pleasantries or shallowness. She told Sansa about her childhood, her marriage to Khal Drogo and her marriage to Aegon, her accomplishments and her failures. Sansa listened in awe, she had heard these stories before but not with the intimate details that only who had lived them could provide. So great were Daenerys' deeds that it seemed as if she came forth from the very age of heroes, and could walk proud amongst those legends like Brandon the Builder, Lann the Clever, the Grey King and Serwyn of the Mirror Shield. Still, while Sansa could admire Daenerys, she mistrusted her and her armor of courtesy remained implacable.

They bathed several times a day and Sansa knew the hot pools outside the Guest House, heated by the hot springs would delight Daenerys once her health returned. Daenerys' eagerly looked forward to this event, jesting that they and the other ladies would be like Jonquil and her sisters. She often begged Sansa to sing the song _Six Maids in a Pool_ and teased that perhaps Aegon would perchance to come upon as Florian had with Jonquil. _She would have me love her_ , Sansa thought. _In her chambers, she plays the supplicant, but outside it she plays the sovereign._

"Bran the Builder built Winterfell over natural hot springs and those hot waters rush through the walls of the castle like blood through a man's body," Sansa said.

"Though when I was a child I believed that the the source of Winterfell's heat was a great sleeping dragon who lay underneath in the bowels of the earth," she continued remembering the silly little girl she had been once. That girl's dreams were full of songs and stories. How her adult self pitied that little girl, and how she envied her.

"And would this dragon ever wake? And would a brave knight kill it?" Daenerys asked smiling gently at her.

The little girl Sansa had told Jeyne Poole of her fanciful notions. And her friend had replied that the dragon did not need a brave knight to kill it. _The dragon would kidnap an ugly maiden and she would turn him to stone with a look. Haha, the ugly maiden will be Arya Horseface._ _Some maidens do not need any knights to save them_ , Jeyne had japed. The little girl had given Jeyne a disapproving look for Arya was her sister. The look held the seed of the lord's face she wore as an adult, but that face held no power then and had only made Jeyne laugh harder. Poor Jeyne, Sansa thought, and her ferocious anger at Littlefinger came rushing back red-hot and blinding. _Would that I could kill him every night._ One death was not enough to atone for the evil that he wrought.

But Jeyne had named Arya the ugly maiden and nothing could be farther from the truth. Arya was a beauty of surpassing loveliness, the Wild Rose of Winterfell, as men named her. Visitors would come to Winterfell and Sansa could see their eyes moving from Sansa's face then to Arya's as if to judge who is the greater beauty. The lecherous ones would still their eyes on Arya. Sansa's beauty was the beauty of the innocent, the maiden fair to be worshiped and yearned for from afar. Arya's beauty was the beauty of the temptress, the woman no man could tame but who promised good sport for he who dared.

"The dragon was a noble creature. I could never decide whether he would wake when Winterfell was in great peril to defend the castle's people or whether it would wake only at the end of time ... but I suppose I know that answer now," Sansa replied. She did not want to dwell too deeply on the fate of Winterfell's smallfolk at this moment, the blow would be too heavy.

"Is it hard coming back here? With all the reminders of what you've lost, and those you've lost?," Daenerys asked.

"I had thought it would be. I was anxious about returning to Winterfell, though the hunger for it drove every one of my actions. At first I was very afraid of going to places that were too tied to one beloved person. I didn't enter the sept for months too afraid that it would be a sharp reminder of my mother's absence. But when I dared to go there at last, I found that I felt nothing. It made no difference. Her absence is no more keenly felt there than anywhere else. Her absence is like the sky above, it is spread over everything. For me, this is what it is like to lose a beloved, no place holds the power of absence. What has changed is my life, the very act of living has changed," Sansa paused here feeling Daenerys was powerfully moved.

"It is like that for me as well. I loved a man, my sun and stars, and I yearned for a childhood home, the house with the red door. Through all my trials ... daily I said to myself that if _I look back I am lost_. Lest I drown in all my sorrows," Daenerys said.

"Returning to Winterfell holds no sorrow for me only joy and peace. My greatest joy is to see it restored to its glory and to see my _all_ of my siblings restored to their rightful place." Sansa said.

Daenerys looked at her and they both knew that here Sansa was stressing her point about Jon.

"Your Grace, he may be Jon Targaryen, but the name he claimed in life was Jon Snow. His dying wish, _his_ wish, was to return to Winterfell, to be buried in the ancient lichyard where the faithful servants of Winterfell are buried. But we took his body and the body of his direwolf Ghost, and buried it in the crypts where the Kings of Winter lie. He sits there now, on his stone throne, with his stone Ghost by his side and his stone sword Longclaw on his lap. King Stannis had offered him Winterfell when Jon was the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. Jon denied him because he would not forsake his honor and his duty to the Night's Watch. But it must have been a great temptation, for I know he loved his place well and in his boyish fantasies he had thought that he might be worthy of the title of Lord of Winterfell. His siblings honor him in death with his heart's delight and the Kings of Winter have accepted him. He walks amongst them now, as one of them. If you take a single bone, his spirit will haunt you forever. He will not rest easy in that marriage bed that you have prepared for him and you under the circle of stone." Sansa said, her voice firm but there was no trace of anger.

Daenerys replied, her eyes welling up with unshed tears, "Sansa, my barrenness was a curse placed upon me by an evil maegi whom I had saved for I had a child's sense of judgment then. This maegi prophesied that I would never bare a living child. But prophecies are not written in stone, I knew that well to my bitterness for her prophecy forestalled another one that I found more to my liking. I lived with the Dothraki, as their Khalessi. All men know they are the greatest horsebreeders in the world. They have a saying that to breed a matchless foal, one must have both a stallion and a mare without peer. That is why Khal Drogo sought my hand. I was of the blood of the dragon and the last female scion of a House that ruled the Seven Kingdoms. With my blood and his seed, our son would be the Stallion That Mounts The World. Or so the crones of the Dosh Khaleen had prophesied. That future died with Drogo and our son Rhaego, the maegi had destroyed it, abetted by my own naive trust. But I hoped that if I had found a sire without peer, a great hero, that I might at last bare a living child. Jon was that sire, he was _the Last Hero_ and he was of the blood of the Dragon."

Daenerys continued, "Jon's death robbed me of my heirs. I will never be a mother to a little girl or a little boy. Fate robbed me even of Drogon, Rhaegal and Viserion. The Mother of Dragons, men call me. But the dragons are gone. Rhaegal and Viserion fled me long before their deaths, to find other masters who I knew not. The earth has swallowed up all my hopes and dreams, I had hoped that when I returned to the earth, that I might lie next to those dreams."

"Do you know what Jon was like?" Sansa asked.

Daenerys sank into her bath, her voice faraway and dreamy. "I imagined that he would be a man much like Khal Drogo, my sun and stars. A fierce warrior with a warrior's body, a fierce lover who kisses could not be denied, fond of laughter and the pleasures of the world."

"Jon was lean and quick, but not muscled. You can see this in his statute in the crypts, it was carved by a man in the Night's Watch who knew him well. As for his qualities as a lover, I know not, but he took his vows seriously and one of them was of chastity. He would not have practiced his ... um, swordsmanship ... without great guilt. As for loving laughter and pleasure, Jon was my father's son, though not of his seed. My father would say that it grows so cold up here in winter that a man's laughter freezes in his throat and chokes him to death and that's why the Starks have so little humor. Jon was gentle and brave and strong. But Your Grace ... he would have bored you to tears if you had known him."

Daenerys laughed at this and Sansa's laugh followed. They left their bath at last, the water had grown tepid.

Daenerys' took Sansa's hand in hers. "Sweet Sansa, sweet sister. If I cannot have Jon, will you grant me another request?"

"What is your request? If there is no dishonor in it, then it is yours." Sansa said, wary and unsure of what the Dragon Queen might ask of her.

"Will you call me Dany? My brother called me Dany and I call myself that in my head. But no one calls me that now. A subject can hardly call their Queen by her childhood nickname. Only an equal can."

Sansa smiled and said "Dany" then kissed her on her cheeks as she would do with a sister.

"Do you have a name that only your loved ones call you by?" Daenerys asked.

 _Little Bird_ , Sansa thought but no one could call her that save Sandor. " _You Stupid_ is a term of endearment of Arya's." At this, they both giggled.

* * *

Later that night Sansa laid in bed thinking of the past few days events. Besides her, Arya slept gently snoring.

Sansa was perplexed by Daenerys speech. _Dany had said that Aegon is not a dragon, but Jon was? But she also says that her brother Viserys was not a dragon. Is Aegon not a dragon because he is not Rhaegar 's true son or is he not a dragon because he has had no great victories?_ It was all very confusing. Daenerys was a conqueror, she had won the Iron Throne, and Sansa suspected much of her sadness was that there was nothing else left for the Dragon Queen to do now except live in the aftermath of her achievements and have babies. _She told me if she looked back she was lost, but now there is nothing left to do but for her to look back. Her course has run._

Sansa had been mostly truthful with Daenerys, save for one exception. There was one lie she told her. The lie was " _this is what it is like to lose a beloved, no place holds the power of absence."_ For she had lost Sandor and she felt his absence in one place most keenly, the place she could not run away from. That place was her own body.

It was not that love's appetite was sharp. She missed lying beneath him, but she could find a remedy that would lessen that desire on her own. It was that she had been his lover, and the act of love had changed her body, it was different now, both her body and his too. _My body feels as desolate as an empty house_. Sansa thought, pitying herself and her misery. Sansa turned and took Arya's hand in hers. She felt her sister squeeze it gently, though she knew Arya was fast asleep.

* * *

In the days that followed Sansa spent most of her time with Daenerys, rather than Aegon. She had hoped that they could spend time all together, but there was a chill between Daenerys and Aegon. The chill was strengthened by Daenerys' illness but it was there long before it. Aegon had said that he was Daenerys' husband and not her lover and Daenerys conversation had all but declared it to be the truth.

Dany had told her _If you afraid to love Aegon because you cannot share him, you must rest easy on that point._ She also said _I am a Queen by conquest, I claim the same rights as Queen Nymeria._ When Sansa was ten she had discovered the book _The Loves of Queen Nymeria_ in the Winterfell Library. It was a serious work of scholarship, but to a young girl as racy and as titillating as if it had been the pornographic Lysene treatise _The Art of the Seven Sighs._ The young Sansa had read it at night, by candlelight, her breathing coming in heavy, occasionally stopping to hold the book to her chest, both delighted and appalled by the words written there. Queen Nymeria was a woman with large appetites that only a succession of great heroes could satisfy.

Sansa enjoyed Dany's company, but there was friction. Not between them, but between Dany and the other ladies that surrounded them, one lady in particular, the lady Arya. Dany and Arya bickered incessantly, subtle insults were traded. Many a picnic was spent with Sansa and Shireen sitting quietly, while Dany and Arya dueled with tongues as Aegon and Arya had dueled with their wooden sticks. Their verbal combat ended when Dany suggested to Arya that perhaps she should seek out Aegon who must be surely boring Bran with their countless hours playing cyvasse.

After that Arya was no longer a part of their party. Dany was relived, telling Sansa, "Your sister is a sore trial. And selfish, she is no help in running this great estate, it all falls on your shoulders and it will fall on Shireen's shoulders when you are gone. Men call her a lady, yet she had not learned a lady's courtesies."

Sansa felt compelled to defend Arya, "Arya is very brave, with the courage and heart of any man."

"Oh yes, a man's heart, but where is her woman's strength? Sansa, it grieves me to see how often you dismiss your own worth. If Arya had traded places with you after your father's death, would she have survived King's Landing? The Gods have given you both trials that sharpened and strengthened you, as a whetstone sharpens dull steel. Do not think because you would not have survived her trials, that Arya would have had the strength and the skill to survive yours. Many a time in my own life the only thing that kept me from despair and defeat was the knowledge of my own self worth. I would tell myself _I am of the blood of the dragon..._ "

" _I am of the blood of the dragon_ " Arya said to Sansa as they lay in bed. She mocked Daenerys by imitating her voice. "That Daenerys is a sore trial. And _silly_ , why she told me she's not worried about infection from the gray plague because dragons never become ill from the diseases that afflict men. I pointed out that Daeron II and many of his grandchildren died in the Great Spring Sickness a hundred years ago. That shut her up!"

Arya turned to Sansa and whispered conspiratorially, "Let's play a game at tomorrow's supper. We'll drink every time she says _I am of the blood of the dragon."_

* * *

They did not play Arya's drinking game at tomorrow's supper. Sansa disapproved of it, Dany may be silly, but at times so was Arya. She would not mock any of her sisters, but defend them, even against each other.

Supper was one of the few occasions she spent in close company with Aegon. They had an ease with each other that was truly pleasant. They spoke of alchemy and history and politics. They had even argued sometimes about these subjects. _I do not wear my armor of courtesy with Aegon._

Aegon had postponed his mummers' show due to Daenerys illness. It would be the next week instead. Sansa queried him on it, especially on the subject of Yi Ti flowers.

"These flowers are most wondrous, Sansa. Do you remember the red comet that brightened the night sky seven years ago? Well imagine that, but not one, many. These flowers will delight all that see it. It is my special gift to you, a bouquet of exotic flowers, for the Rose of my heart."

"What is their fuel?" Sansa asked.

"A substance called Yi Ti salt. The alchemists of the Yi Ti discovered it by chance while searching for an elixir of immortality," he replied.

"Is it magic then? ... I had thought magic was dead or at least dying," Sansa said.

"No magic, but bird shit." They both burst into laughter.

"Lord Hallyne, is this why he is here at Winterfell? To work in your mummers' show? Yi Ti salt is the new substance of the Alchemists' Guild, now that the spells for wildfire will not work." Sansa asked. At last the pieces fell into place. Yi Ti salt discovered by the alchemists of the Yi Ti and worked on by the alchemists of King's Landing.

Aegon nodded, "Clever girl" he said, smiling at with her with pleasure. He kissed her cheek then, but hesitated for a moment before leaning to kiss her lips. Before he could kiss her, Arya gave a loud yell across the table, "Aegon, sing for us. We have heard of your talent as a singer."

Aegon smiled with forbearance at Arya.

"I hope you do not find Arya's company trying," Sansa said. She had thought he might welcome it as Arya and Aegon and Rickon spent many hours fishing and hunting and swordfighting while she was with Daenerys. Bran was most relived by Arya's arrival, and as Dany had predicted, very bored with cyvasse, he was eager to return to his own pursuits. Bran had a talent for engineering and craft that none of his siblings shared or understood very well. He had built a workroom where he spent his hours with none to attend him save Hodor or Maester Samwell.

"Not at all. Arya is like no woman I've ever met before and I say that as a compliment," he said, shaking his head but smiling as if in both disapproval and admiration.

"She thinks she has everything figured out," he murmured.

Sansa glanced briefly at Arya before returning her eyes to Aegon. "Perhaps she does."

"Well, I hope she does not ask me to water dance or sing on our wedding night, Sansa," he jested. At this point the call for him to sing became raucous, many people clamored for it, and he had to leave her to satisfy them.

Aegon sang to the crowd. His voice was strong and rich, could it be anything else? Someone gave him a high harp, and the strings of the harp and his voice, filled the Great Hall of Winterfell with a sweet sound. He sang of Jenny of Oldstones and her Prince of Dragonflies, he sang of the Dance of the Dragons translating it from its original High Valryian, which most of the guests could not understand, into the Common Tongue. It was a haunting ballad of two dying lovers amidsts the Doom of Valyria, and most of the maids and even some of the men, were moved to tears over it.

At the end he sang a song that Sansa knew was for her, for when he sang it his eyes never left her face. It was "Florian and Jonquil." Sansa smiled warmly at Aegon, it was only courteous and Aegon had meant well. _Tyrion must have told him of my fondness for knights and songs like this one_ , she thought. She had told Sandor she hated "Florian and Jonquil", that it was childish twaddle. She had meant it, not that loving these songs were detestable, but she hated that people kept reminding her of the silly girl she had been. They did not acknowledge that perhaps she had changed, she had grown, that her tastes may not the same now as they were when she was eleven.

Littlefinger was the boldest, cleverest man she had ever known. No doubt had he lived he would have been King's Hand and her lover, perhaps even the secret father of her children. But when he was fifteen he had been foolish enough to challenge Brandon Stark to a duel to the death despite having little skill in arms. Sansa at fifteen had never been as silly as Littlefinger had been. Children grow and children learn and now she a child no longer. Sansa had thought of herself as a house, and the image was fitting. She was a house with many apartments. In one chamber was the chamber where the child Sansa lived, delighting in nothing but pleasant wonders, but that chamber held doors and through those doors lay greater mysteries, the nature and the heart of Man.

While listening to Aegon sing, Sansa recalled a conversation she had with Lord Davos after Queen Daenerys had made her apologies to Bran. Lord Davos told her he was proud of her, _You have a skill in discourse that should be a part of every lord's moral arsenal._ Sansa basked in his approval and was her gratified with her ability to make peace between their Houses. It was a real accomplishment, worthy and satisfying. No needlework could compare. She had seen herself as Lord Davos had seen her, a peacemaker and a Queen. _They call Daenerys, Queen Daenerys the Conqueror. Perhaps I will be worthy of being called Queen Sansa the Conciliator._


	10. Sansa 8

It was morning and Sansa sat in her solar reading her correspondence. _A letter from Tyrion_ , she thought excitedly. She was disappointed that he was not a part of the retinue that traveled to Winterfell with Aegon and Daenerys.

Sansa read the letter and then read it again to absorb all its contents once more. The letter's contents were shattering, the first news of import was the murder of Cersei Lannister by an unknown hand and the second news of import was Tyrion's farewell to her. He told her he would be leaving his position as King's Hand, but not to retire to Casterly Rock. He said that he would return to the lands beyond the Narrow Sea. The death of his sister had both untethered and unhinged him, and now all he wanted to do was run away from the rewards he had fought for his entire life. The letter ended with these words:

_All men in the Seven Kingdoms condemn me for a kinslayer and a Kingslayer. I am feared but never loved, no where else is this sentiment as strong as it is in Casterly Rock. It all goes back and back, to our mothers and fathers and theirs before them. We are puppets dancing on the strings of those who came before us. My father said that I was an ill-made, devious, disobedient, spiteful little creature full of envy, lust and low cunning. He said that I would never be Lord of Casterly Rock. I held the Rock long enough to spite Cersei. But now that she is gone, I find my joy turns to ashes in my mouth. I cannot stay there or anywhere in Westeros._

_Do you know that I have long cherished a dream to travel the world? When I was a boy I read Longstrider's Wonders and Wonders Made by Man until the books fell apart. I will follow the scribe's example and travel to lands no Westerosi has set foot in. Be kind to me in your histories, Sansa. Valiant deeds that go unsung are no less valiant._

While Tyrion's legacy was uncertain, his sister's legacy was all but assured. Sansa thought that Cersei Lannister would be remembered for a thousand years, while her father Tywin would be but a footnote in history. It would not a remembrance that would have delighted the lioness or her sire. For Cersei Lannister would not be enthroned in the works of scholars but in the nightmares of children.

Cersei had seen the death of all her children and the diminishment of her House. Joffrey had been killed at his own wedding, in a Tyrell and Littlefinger plot. Tommen had also been killed by the Tyrells, they had presented his body to Daenerys as Tywin Lannister had presented the bodies of Rhaegar's children to Robert Baratheon once it was all but certain that the Tommen's regime was bound to fall. Myrcella had been the victim of Dornish plots to destroy House Lannister. Myrcella's fate called to Sansa powerfully, as if they had lived parallel lives. Myrcella loved her Dornish prince, Trystane, with a child's ardor. And Princess Arianne had found her as easy to manipulate into betraying her family as Cersei had once manipulated Sansa.

When Daenerys sacked King's Landing, Cersei was taken captive. Cersei was tried before open court for her crimes. It was a week long trial, a madhouse as throngs of lords and smallfolk came forward to tell tales of her wickedness. Evidence was presented of her murder of Robert and his bastards, her torture of nobles and servants alike in Qyburn's black cells, her sexual perversions and her malices great and small. It descended into chaos towards the end as the tales grew beyond all logic and Cersei was accused of every base act committed in King's Landing. Not only did they say she committed incest with her brother Jaime, but they said she committed incest with her son Joffrey. She offered no defense except motherhood. _All that I did, I did for my babies. A lioness must protect her cubs._ The crowd howled and jeered at her and the chant of "I killed your baby, Queen Cersei, what are you going to do about it?" became a habitual taunt that interrupted the dignity of her trial, such as it was.

She would have been executed but for Tyrion. He had famously declared _Cersei is mine to kill_ and then proceeded to dumbfound all of land by pleading with Daenerys for his sister's life. Cersei was taken from King's Landing to spend her days under lock and key in Casterly Rock. The lioness had been de-clawed, condemned to spend her days as a fat house cat. But her life and her trial fueled her legend. She transformed into a horror figure in children's games. Sansa did not know the origins of the game but it spread like wildfire, until every child over five knew how to play Bloody-Queen-Cersei as well as they played monsters-and-maidens, hide-the-treasure, and come-into-my-castle.

Sansa knew of various different versions of the game, but the most famous one was the one in which the summoner must say "Bloody Queen Cersei, I killed your baby" three times while spinning around. The game was a test of a child's bravery, for it was said that if Bloody Queen Cersei was summoned, she would proceed to kill the summoner in gruesome ways such as scratching their face off or gouging their eyes out or cutting off their head. But even if Bloody Queen Cersei should fail to appear, there was no deliverance from her power for it was said that she would haunt the summoner for the rest of their lives.

Sansa had tried the game herself when she first heard of it. Instead of spinning around, she tried the variation of chanting to her mirror, "Bloody Queen Cersei, I killed your baby" three times. Cersei never appeared to murder Sansa in gruesome ways, though the little hairs on the back of Sansa's neck stood up and she felt herself shiver with cold after the incantation. She stared at the mirror long and hard, holding her breath at the thought of Cersei's image appearing before her wielding Ser Ilyn's greatsword, Eddard Stark's blood dripping from the blade.

Of course, Cersei never did appear in the mirror, but Sansa could not deny that the child's game had its own magic. The woman haunted Sansa from that day forward, she could hear the lioness whisper to her and sometimes she thought she could see Cersei's reflection peeking out in the pupils of her own blue eyes. It was fanciful stuff, born of an excess in imagination. Still, Sansa suspected that as the child's game had foretold the truth, Cersei Lannister would haunt her for the rest of her life.

* * *

Shireen was admitted to Sansa's solar later in the morning. She was wearing boy's clothes and had obviously just come from the training yard. Arya had insisted that both Shireen and Minisa Liddle learn basic skills in defense. Sansa agreed, thinking of the singer Marillion who had tried to rape her in the Fingers, but she did not stress arms in the education of her goodsister and her ward. Skill in arms would have been of little use against the fists of Meryn Trant and Boros Blount, unless one was as prenaturally talented as Arya or as strong as the Maid of Tarth. Sansa and her charges were neither of those things. Littlefinger had taught her that strategy was a more useful defense than strength. And in strategy, a woman could be more adept than a man. _Just as women's bodies are softer than men's, so their understanding is sharper_ , she told Shireen and Minisa.

While she was not bitter towards her parents and Septa Mordane, she did think her early education had been remiss. She vowed that her charges and her daughters would not find themselves so ill-equip to navigate the rough waters of life as she had been. She hated Littlefinger for many things, but was grateful that he had been most instructive in the subjects that her parents and Septa Mordane ignored: law and accounting, warfare, agriculture, politics, and commerce. It was his lessons that Sansa passed on to Shireen and Minisa. _A lady must be wise and have the courage of a man. Her knowledge must be so comprehensive that she can understand some part of everything. A lady must know the laws of warfare so that she can command men and defend her lands if they are attacked. A lady should know everything pertaining to her estate's business affairs so that she can act as her own agent in the absence of a husband or male guardian. A lady must know the number and strength of her men to gauge accurately her resources, so that she never will have to depend on feeble promises._ _She must test her men, discovering their qualities of courage and determination before overly trusting them._

"Sansa, you told me that a lady's duties extend to the monitoring of the behavior of all the people living in her house." Shireen asked.

Sansa smiled, pleased by Shireen's eagerness to assume the responsibilities of the lady of Winterfell.

"I wish to speak to you of Sandor Clegane ... I think he is sick. Oh no - Sansa - don't look so." Shireen replied.

Sansa's mind had fixated on the worse outcome, the gray plague.

"I don't want to alarm you! I think his sickness is of the spirit. But more than just wine-sickness. His chambers stink of rotted food and there are piles of soiled clothing strewn across the floors. I cannot count the number of broken wine jars and the room reeks of the stench of overflowing chamber pots. Rickon has been there and he showed it to me himself today after practice while Sandor was away. He said Sandor Clegane was man who kept his room spick and span until recently."

Sansa let out a long breath. It look several long moments to think past the rush of fear and panic. She chewed her lip in worry and guilt. _I had thought Sandor would be able to live his life with the same courage and dignity as I swore to live mine. I had made arrangements so that he had the means to be happy, he will have Hornwood and he could have the love of a good woman if he but try. He was content before having me, he could be content again after I'm gone._

 _Even the humblest pieces can have wills of their own, sometimes they refuse to make the moves you've planned for them_ , Littlefinger had told her. She reflected on his words as she felt the hot tears well up in her eyes, to her great dismay.

"Sansa!" Shireen cried, rushing to Sansa and embracing her. "Don't panic! I know he is one of your favorites. I will speak to the steward about denying Sandor wine from now on and I'll make sure the maids clean his rooms twice a day. And I'm ... I'm going to speak to him myself!"

Shireen continued, "You also told me a lady's duties includes the arranging of marriages for her people. I think that the cause of his sickness is love, perhaps love for Minisa, or some other maiden. Minisa told me he hardly ever says a word to her, even when she asked him to dance on that one occasion. I perceive him to be very shy, terrified of rejection because of his looks. I know what it is like to be doubt one's ability to earn love because of one's appearance. He's always been kind to me in his rough way. I'm going to repay his kindness and give him advice on how to speak to ladies."

Sansa burst out in a mirthless laughter. "What will you say?" She remembered giving Jon advice on wooing ladies. The extent of it was _When a lady tells you her name, you should say it's pretty no matter the name she gives._ She had been ten at the time. She knew better courtesies, but did not think Jon could master them with finesse, he was only a boy of twelve. She doubted that Sandor could either despite being a man past thirty.

"He must praise his lady's beauty in smooth gallantries. He should say he adored her hair and cherished her lips. He should compare her eyes to stars or bright jewels... That's a good start! Better than the words I once heard him say to Grenn. I overheard them speaking and Sandor said that Bessa the kitchen girl's teats makes a man wish he had never been weaned. I think he could win a wife if he was not so coarse and crude." Shireen said.

"Shireen, do as you will. But tell him also that no one dies of love and he will endure." Sansa replied.

* * *

_This is folly,_ Sansa thought as she entered Sandor's room. _Gods shields us, this is folly._ The maids had cleaned it from top to bottom, it was pristine and sweet smelling. Sansa told herself that she only wanted to make sure that Shireen's commands had been obeyed. But instead of leaving immediately, she lingered in his room, knowing that her presence in Winterfell would be noted and missed within an hour. _There are Targaryen retainers all about the castle and I'm here in my lover's bedroom. This is too great a hazard. Someone will discover it._

Sansa walked around his room, knowing that the hour approached when he would break from his duties and return here. A half hour went by and she paced impatiently. She found the ugly red woolen tunic amongst the neat pile of clothes folded on one of his chairs. She picked it up and held it to her mouth and nose, breathing deeply. It had been just freshly laundered, but retained a trace of his scent, a combination of wood and leather and man.

It was at this moment that Sandor entered his room. She gazed at him, still holding the tunic. Then she smiled shyly, her face half hidden behind it, like a shamefaced girl. He saw her immediately and there was a very awkward moment, in which they both seemed to find nothing to say.

"How long do we have?" he asked her.

"No more than half an hour," she replied. She would not lie about her reasons for being here. He hated frauds and liars.

He pulled her against him, enfolding her in his arms. Sansa allowed it, going pliant in response. She tiptoed to kiss him. He kissed her deeply, squeezing her buttocks and pulling her tight against him, groaning. He pushed her backwards, drawing her unerringly to his bed. She fell on the side of the bed with a sound of delight. All her fear and care and worry fell away as he knelt down on the floor beside the bed. She lifted her legs off the ground, so that he could remove her smallclothes. She held her skirts up and whimpered as she felt his mouth kiss her between her legs. She heard herself moan wantonly as he tasted her with his tongue and pushed his fingers inside of her, stretching her. It was a delicious mix of sensations, to feel his tongue on her, the light stubble of his beard scratching her there, his fingers thrusting inside her. She could only respond with pants and little whimpers of _oh oh oh_ and greater pleas for more as she pushed his head harder against her. She felt the tension coil in her body, it coiled tighter and tighter and then she felt the tension break, herself coming apart, shuddering and moaning. Once her trembling had subsided, he rose before her, and released his stiff member from his breeches.

"Do it to me, do it to me," she teased, spreading her legs wide, eager to be penetrated.

He pushed her knees up to her chin and sank into her, groaning like beast. "Oh fuck!" he cursed explosively. But he used her gently, perhaps remembering how rough he was the last time he had her. He held her head in his hand as he stared down at her, his mouth a snarl, teeth baring as he drove into her. She responded by cupping his left cheek where the skin was a mass of ugly twisted scar tissue.

"Say my name," he ordered her.

 _Sandor ... Sandor_ , she chanted. He drove into her harder now. She gasped, her muscles contracting with each thrust, the pressure building again inside her until her back arched and she felt her culmination come upon her like an ambush. He fell upon her now, his weight pressing her into the bed, his mouth making grunting noises at her ear. He push inside her hard one last time, his penetration at her very depths and then she felt his warm wet seed discharged inside her. They stayed like that for a long moment, listening to the sound of each others breathing.

Then he braced himself on his elbows, he locked his fingers into hers and leaned over her face, kissing her forehead and brow with light kisses. She settled deeper into the bed but held on to him with her legs, imprisoning him. She sighed in pleasure and contentment, she could die of this happiness ...

Soon her thoughts passed into pleasing dreams.

"I wish we could run away into the forest together. Like in your song. You'll lay me down in a bed of grass and you'll be my forest love and I your forest lass," she said.

He stared at her with eyes that had the balefulness of an old dog, reminding Sansa of the sad old hound that had befriended her in the Fingers.

"What would we live on? _Love?_ That will not feed us, though it would make you fat soon enough," he rasped. He was still hard and inside her and he twitched his member now to lend force to his words.

"Why did you come? To torment me further?" he asked.

"To torment myself," she sighed miserably, it was the truth. "And to steal your favorite tunic."

She unlocked her hands from his and moved one of them to cup his cheek. "Do you remember the night of the battle? You left your white cloak behind. I held on to it, hid it in my trunk, beneath my summer silks. I'd take it out on occasion when I felt alone and vulnerable and cover myself with it. For years afterward, I'll lie awake at night and wonder if I had made the right decision to not leave with you. That night, it is a link between us, ugly as it was. We share the memories... " she whispered to him, her voice as if in a trance.

"It wasn't all ugly, I think I must have wanted you from then on. I thought often of your cruel mouth and how you wept at my song."

Sandor leaned his forehead against hers. He drew his hands to his side and pulled his dagger from his hip. It was sheathed when he pressed it against her throat, in imitation of that shared memory.

"I put a dagger against your throat and you fell in love with me? Your wits are as addled as your eyesight is poor, Sansa."

She responded by clenching her sheath, down there, sending little sweet kisses to him. He barked with laughter and twitched himself in response. "My perverse Little Bird. Well you have your revenge. I put a dagger against your throat and you twisted it and plunged it into my heart. You've murdered me. But I love my murderer." He kissed her passionately. They broke after a long moment.

"I wish her only joy and happiness. She is only person I have ever loved in this life and the next." He hugged her tightly then, she closed her eyes savoring the feel of him.

He freed himself from her embrace and walked away. She picked up her smallclothes and bent to put them on. He returned to her once more with the tunic, handing it to her.

"Here, take it. You've paid the iron price," he rasped, his voice a disquieting mixture of seriousness and jest.

She took the tunic and embraced him, her head pressed against his abdomen. He had never told he loved her before. It was satisfying and it sated something inside her to hear it, though she never thought he felt otherwise. He stroked her hair for a moment and then he helped her to her feet. Their time was at an end. She leaned her face up to receive his kiss. It was sweet and tender, as his kisses were wont to be. But it was light, a farewell kiss, with no dark promise of more to come. He sat down on his bed and made no move to escort her out. She walked away, stepping across the threshold of his room into the empty hallway. As she closed his door, she saw him through the crack. He sat on his bed, holding his hands to his head as if he was imprisoning the melee of his thoughts. He made a sound, a dry moan, like a man at the last store of his strength.

* * *

The night of Aegon's mummers' show came upon at last. The show was conducted over one of the pools of water in Winterfell. In the pool, there were large detailed models meant to be the Wall and Winterfell and various other castles and monuments, all adorned with model fountains and wheels and torches.

The story that Aegon composed was a poetic tale of the War. But it devoted no more than ten minutes to the War of the Five Kings before plunging into the story of the War for the Dawn. There were at least two dozen mummers, some clearly costumed as personages Sansa recognized, Jon, Daenerys, Bran, and even a dwarf mummer to play Tyrion. There were mummers costumed in white, carrying giant paper-mache white spiders, they terrified Rickon enough that she heard him suck in his breath.

There were a number of mummers covered in soot and dressed in leaves and cloths of green. Sansa thought they were suppose to be the Children of the Forest, but she was proven wrong. The green men ran around lighting fuses as the story required. The fuse was what set off the Yi Ti flowers. From the models in the pool of water, the green men would light the wheels that would spin around rapidly and give off sparks of fire in a circular pattern. The fountains that were lit would produce dense showers of sparks that resembled shooting water. The pool reflected the light and the noise of the Yi Ti flowers, enhancing the sheer beauty of the experience. It was awe-inspiring, _controlled fire_ and all who saw were fascinated with it.

Aegon had saved the most spectacular part for the end. A massive wooden device covered in painted paper-mache scales was brought forth. The scales were green and bronze, a dragon that was a representation of Rhaegal. Inside the wooden Rhaegal there was a bevy of Yi Ti flowers. The green men lit the fuse, and from the mouth of the dragon sparks exploded with such force that it appeared as if the wooden Rhaegal breathed fire as his living counterpart had once.

She looked to Bran and saw his eyes widen in wonder and joy. How kingly and handsome he looked sitting on his throne with his direwolf at his side, Bran's hands absentmindedly petting Summer. He did not wear his lord's face, it was the face of a young man, brave and dignified who assumed a weighty destiny and performed the tasks set before him with as much courage as the heroes of old that Bran had loved as a boy, as much as Symeon Star-Eyes. _The world was saved by a bunch of children,_ Sansa thought giggling to herself, _at least based on Aegon's show._

She then glanced above him and saw Dany smiling at Bran. It was a smile of startling seductiveness and genuine warmth. Now, she saw more than a glimmer of Dany's legendary beauty. Many a man must have been slain by the power and magic of that smile. For a moment Dany and Sansa's eyes met, while each of them stared at Bran. Sansa glanced away quickly not want to interrupt this most private of communications between lovers or would-be-lovers or sweet friends. _Bran may not have a man's vigor, but he has a man's heart_ , Sansa felt a surge of gratitude towards Dany that she should recognize this in him. They had a shared sorrow, the sorrow of broken people. A woman who could not bare a child and a man who could not wield a sword.

* * *

Sansa sat with Bran, Arya, Daenerys, Aegon and Lord Davos after the mummers' show. Dany and Aegon had seen these flowers bloom before, but it was all new to those who lived in Winterfell and the wonder of the evening still sang in their blood.

It was Lord Davos who broke the silence with the question that must have been on all of their minds, "The substance that fuels the Yi Ti flowers, the salt, can used it be used as a weapon?"

"We have no means," replied Aegon.

"We do not bring weapons to Winterfell, Bran, only wonders," Daenerys added.

"But the pyromancers, Lord Hallyne and his Alchemists' Guild, they are studying its applications are they not? Surely they have not devoted all of their energies into mummers shows. The alchemists of the Yi Ti, have they worked it into weapons?" asked Sansa.

"The Yi Ti have made no developments in weaponry, as far as we know. They seem little interested in military applications. It is said that they have had no wars for thousands of years and thus no use for improving means to kill brave men." Daenerys said.

"You brought us Widow's Wail so that Ice may be reforged. But will it be of any practical use to Rickon when he is grown or will he wear it as a ceremonial decoration like Bran wears his crown? This Yi Ti salt will be end of knighthood," Sansa mused, half delighted, half horrified at the implications.

"Good!" Arya said fiercely. "The abomination that was Gregor Clegane could only be killed by a man who is one of the fiercest warriors in Westeros, wielding an ancient blade forged with spells involving blood magic. How many men, women and children died by Gregor Clegane's hand while he lived? How many women did he rape, men that he tortured, babies whose skulls he crushed. His strength was inhuman. Who could stand against the Mountain that Rides? But where will the future Gregor Cleganes be? Sent to an early grave, put down like a mad dog, by no more than an innkeeper wielding a weapon fueled by bird shit," Arya had lived amongst the smallfolk and knew what it was like to be hungry and preyed upon by knights like Gregor and his ilk.

"It will be end of knighthood but the escalation of war. Large armies will rise that need little training," Sansa said.

"Will it be end of kingship?" asked Bran. But he answered the question himself. "It will be end of the divine right of kings."

* * *

Later in the evening Aegon asked Sansa to walk with him in the godswood alone. She was very tired and had no desire to be in anyone's company, least of all an amorous suitor. But she could not say no, it would be discourteous and he deserved at the very least her courtesy.

Her thoughts swirled around Yi Ti salt and all the developments that seem to be rushing into their world. They walked in silence, she did not care to break it, but she could tell that he wanted to say something to her but did not know how.

At last he found the words he had been searching for, but the topic of their conversation was odd. He said, "Sansa, when I was a child my nurse told me of a tale. A King came upon a castle where a beautiful princess lay in an enchanted sleep. In that story, he could not break the enchantment until he kissed her."

"My nurse, Old Nan, also told me the same tale. I did not think the story was very good. The King must kiss the princess, before breaking the enchantment. But where is the daring in that deed? Better that the story goes that the King must break the enchantment, before kissing the princess."

"The King has enough daring for any man," Aegon replied heatedly. Sansa was taken aback, _I struck a nerve, he speaks of himself in this tale. Is this a taunt he hears from Dany?_ She flushed in embarrassment, he was good man and she did not want to hurt him.

"I admit the tale can use some spice. How is this then ... The King travels to a foreign land and learns to his disappointment that the tale is different there than the one he was told to by his nurse. In this land, slumbering princesses can not be awoken with a kiss. He must find another means to break the enchantment. He tried various methods, but they did not work. At last the thought struck him, of course, to break the enchantment, he must find the conjurer who cast it and kill them."

"Did he find the conjurer?" Sansa asked. The thunder built in her head -

"Yes, but in his discovery lay his defeat. The conjurer was the princess, she had cast her own spell and wished to be left alone to slumber and perchance to dream," he replied.

\- and then the thunder receded.

His violet eyes gazed into her with the same mixture of gravity and compassion she had noted that day they went fishing.

"Then the King should find another princess, one who has not been bespelled. He is worthy of great love," she said, squeezing his hand gently, as she would squeeze Arya's when her sister needed comfort.


	11. Sansa 9

Sansa lay in bed that evening waiting for Arya. Her mind lingered on the events that occurred in the godswood tonight. She did not doubt that her marriage to Aegon would have had its portion of happiness. Duty and respect would have bound them and from this soil, affection might have flourished. Her parents had not chosen each other, there were others prior to their marriage, perhaps greater loves, if rumors were to be believed, yet their marriage had its rich rewards. _My marriage to Aegon would have been a makeshift, but the makeshift would have had its own consolations_. Sansa would have his pleasant companionship, she would bear his children and grow old with him. The rest didn't really matter so much. She had told herself this so many times that she believed it. But a makeshift was not enough for Aegon, he already possessed one and did not want another. He wanted something real, and he wanted her to tell him that she would make it real, that she would awaken and _see_ him. _So it is at end_ , she thought, bewildered and relived and frightened all at once.

Arya still had not come to bed and soon drowsiness overcame Sansa. She slept but it was an uneasy sleep. She tossed and turned, her mind wandering into dreams more vivid and intense than any other she had known. In one dream, she was a wife and the mother of a promising young family. She saw a young boy no more than two with a face that resembled her dead brother, Robb, and she saw a babe, a sweet daughter, that would stare at her with solemn grey eyes, Arya's eyes and Sandor's too. Their faces dissolved and now she saw herself lying abed on her stomach, her eyes closed, like a dozing kitten. She was tired but content, they had spent all night making passionate love, which would no doubt result in another fine son. Sandor leaned over her, he was dressed already, he smacked her bottom hard and then rubbed it to lessen the sting. He whispered in her ear, _Time to get up, you lazy wench_. She groaned and flipped over, she raised her hand to motion to him as if to a servant. Her voice was languid and seductive as she spoke, _Hmmm ... I love your bed, I think I will never leave it. Bring me bread and drink, Sandor. And return to me quickly ..._

That pleasant dream disappeared and another one emerged. She in was in the Red Keep, watching her father as he performed a whirlwind of duties. Sansa saw him speaking with the king's voice, commanding the king's armies, and drafting the king's law. He stilled his movements at last, and now he sat on the Iron Throne. He felt her eyes on him and turned to face her, his arms reaching out to beckon her to attend him. She approached him, a girl of eleven, as he had known her before his death. The girl was ashamed, and she threw herself sobbing at his feet, an errant child whose guilt ran bone-deep. His hand reached down to draw her up, she closed her eyes tightly, afraid of seeing the condemnation in his grey eyes, of seeing his lord's face. The child knew the words he would say, and trembled waiting for them to spill from his mouth. _The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. If you would take a man's life, you owe it to him to look into his eyes and hear his final words._

 _I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry_ she cried, sobbing now hysterically, her grief and shame co-mingling, the force of it making her wish she could die at that very moment rather than live with the anguish. _Open your eyes, Sansa_ a voice not her father's bid her. The child Sansa opened her eyes and stared not into her father's grey eyes, but the deep blue eyes of a woman. She was stunned for a moment, the woman was Sansa but not a version that she had ever been, not a child, and not a maid. The woman wore a long fluttering gown of deep forest green, she was dazzling, both more beautiful and more terrible than Sansa as she was now, with all of the world's graces at her command. The older Sansa kissed away the child's tears, whispering to her _If you would reflect well and wisely, you would realize that those events you regard as personal misfortunes have served a useful purpose in your life, and have worked for your betterment._

 _Turn around child_ , she ordered in a voice that would broke no dissent. Sansa turned and she saw a throng of supplicants before them. They faced the older Sansa, waiting on her as the child Sansa waited on the great lady. For the dazzling green lady sat on the Iron Throne dispensing the king's justice. _A lady must conduct herself with such wisdom that she will be both feared and loved. But the best possible fear comes from love,_ her older self told her. The child nodded in agreement, wiping away her tears with the back of her hand.

And then the dream broke as Sansa was awoken by Arya's jostling as her sister climbed into bed. Sansa opened her eyes and saw Arya sitting up in bed, drinking from a cup. Sansa shook the sleep from her face, and sat up. She motioned for Arya to hand her the cup, her mouth was dry.

"What hour is it, Arya?" she asked.

"The hour of the wolf," Arya replied, indicating that it was around three in the morning. The hour of the wolf was portentous time, the time where most births and deaths occur.

Arya's voice held no foreboding though, it was mirthful, on the verge of laughter. "Sleep for a little longer ... but we should get up before dawn. I think we should spend the day hawking, just the two of us. There is much we need to discuss."

Sansa nodded in agreement. She had tasted the cup, it did not hold wine, but hot cacao. She stared at the contents of the cup and then looked at Arya.

"You cannot be mad at me Sansa. _You have no right_ ," Arya said fiercely.

Sansa hugged her sister. "I am not mad. The cup passed to me and I did not want to drink from it. I bade you to taste it in my stead." She kissed the brown hair on Arya's head.

"I pray that you will find it to your liking," she murmured.

* * *

Hawking was one of the few ladylike pursuits that Arya enjoyed. Sansa like most ladies flew merlins or falcons. But Arya flew an eagle, the largest and most powerful of the birds of prey that were used in hawking. Custom dictated that the eagle was reserved only for Kings, it was gift given to Bran by Willas Tyrell, who bred the finest birds in Westeros. But Bran had given it to Arya knowing how she had yearned for the eagle on sight.

"Do you love him and does he love you? The greatest thing is to have someone who loves you and to love in return." Sansa dared to ask now.

Arya said nothing for several long moments, as if she was turning the question in her head like a coin. "Do you remember the night you sang for the crowd in the Great Hall after supper? The firelight fell on your head, what a vision you were, hair aflame and your slim fingers moving over the strings of the high harp, your voice so lovely and sweet. What was that song you sang, that night? Aegon said it was his favorite..."

Sansa shrugged, she knew of the evening Arya spoke of, it was the evening before they went fishing. But she didn't remember much of it other Sandor's fierce stare. He stood too close by her, his hands behind his back, his eyes fixed unblinkingly on her. It was a look of such greedy possession, a mongrel dog guarding its bone, that she felt all must know of their dalliance. She remembered after singing one song, Aegon looked intently at her for a long moment. She thought that perhaps her performance had not impressed him, he made no move to clap or speak. The crowd itself applauded on a more muted note than she had expected. But then she realized that Aegon's silence and the quiet applause of the crowd was a sign of a greater acclaim. Music meant something to Aegon and her song had touched him, touched them all, at a more fundamental level than mere amusement. Aegon murmured with a quiet smile, "That was my favorite, I cannot hear it often enough." Sandor turned to face Aegon, his eyes inscrutable but his voice had a tinge of challenge. "They're all my favorites. The Maiden herself could not have played it better." Then he turned to her and said, "One more song, I beg you." Sansa declined but she felt the tips of her breasts tingle knowing that his words had more than one meaning.

"Well it was magic, whatever song it was. I was moved by it. It spoke of what I felt in my heart but could not put words to... of love and sorrow ... of life and its strange beginnings and inescapable end. I have not been able to get that song out of my head, and then I found Aegon walking in the godswood last night, humming it, all alone, as I was alone. Perhaps you really are a witch Sansa. There was a powerful spell in that song, it has changed me since I've heard it." Arya shook her head in tangled confusion, "It happened all too fast. That is what frightens me. You've bewitched us. What if we wake up tomorrow and realize that it was all just some strange affair, a flicker of an empty passion."

"I cast no spell Arya. You've had your way, as you always do. Do you fear it now that it is done, and cannot be undone? There is no point in regretting a pleasure that was past. And I think that in time you will find nothing to regret at all. Before Aegon, you had no greater ambitions than to live in Winterfell, to be someone's sister and someone's friend and in time someone's aunt. You meant to drift along on the tide of that life into old age, without protest but not without cost." Of all her siblings, it was Arya that seemed the most lost and dispossessed, her face always a dark pool, hiding everything, showing nothing. She and Dany were more alike than they knew, it was the struggle and not the end that had given their life purpose. _Good soldiers do not make good rulers as the adage went, but Arya will prove the exception_ , Sansa fervently prayed.

Arya nodded, "Yes, you're right. It was no good that path. I cannot be satisfied ending up old and withered, until grief and loneliness and rage became the very fabric of my character. I have to swim against the tide. I'm going Aegon's wife and the Younger Queen. You'll have to bow to me and call me Your Grace!"

"Your Grace," Sansa proclaimed, bowing to Arya now, low with a deep courtesy, sweeping out her arms. She remained in that position for a long time until her sister starting laughing and Sansa joined her. Sansa was glad that they could jape and laugh like this after all the bad blood that passed between them. _I had once told Arya that they should have killed her instead of Lady_ , the shame of that memory and how she had defended that monster Joffrey cut her to the quick. Arya must have seen something of her thoughts, for her grabbed Sansa's hand and motioned her to rise. They hugged fiercely.

They parted when they heard the bells, soft and tinkling, and then a brown speck flash amongst the green trees of the forest. Arya called her eagle, spinning the lure and the bird came, dropping hard from the sky like an bolt of lightening, its bells screaming. The eagle unfurled its wings as it approached the lure, but just as it was about to strike it, the lure shot downward, making the bird wheel around. The lure hit the ground, spraying bits of dirt, then Arya twisted the cord, making the lure sweep across the air. The eagle followed it and so began another type of dance, as elegant and as nimble as the Water Dance. Eagle and maiden danced together, the maiden spinning her lure artfully around the eagle in wide circles, enticing it, yet pulling it away at the last moment. The eagle came in ever faster, its bells jingling as it attacked and stooped and turned sharply to chase the lure. Around and around they danced, the maiden and the eagle both skillful and dexterous, the dance thrilling Sansa to the core. The bird seemed to anticipate Arya's movements towards the end and the dance ended when it turned sharply and checked the lure hard. The eagle's great big outspread wings folded as she settled in. Arya rewarded the bird with a piece of chicken tied to the lure, laughing ferociously, "Lady Vengeance. My love!"

Sansa's heart thudded in reaction to both the majesty of the falcon and the falconer. Arya smiled at her, teeth baring, with the eyes of a wolf with the taste for blood. _Lady Vengeance will be Queen_ , Sansa thought breathlessly, _how her enemies will tremble_.

After hawking, they sat beneath the shade of a giant oak tree, picnicking. Arya turned to Sansa and said with bloody relish, "The first thing I'm going to do as Queen is kill the Freys."

"Surely not all of them? The children had no part in the Red Wedding."

"No one in the North shares that sentiment, Sansa. Have you forgotten, they betrayed guest-right, they slew Robb and took his head and sewed Grey Wind's head in its place. They dumped our Mother's naked body in the Trident in a mockery of Tully burial rites. The only good Frey is a dead Frey. They have been villains for a hundred years, before Walder Frey, they were looked down upon as men without honor. Spare the children and you spare a weed that will grow into a tree that chokes out the life of other, better plants. How long will the children remain innocent? Has not the restoration of the Targaryens' taught us the folly of mercy? King Robert neglected to kill the dragonspawn and now his true heir, Shireen Baratheon is dependent on the kindness of those who should be her subjects. She is rightful ruler of the realm or so our father and the Northern lords would say."

* * *

Shireen Baratheon was a delicate issue in the North. The North had declared itself for King Stannis and he had charged that in the event of his demise, all that follow him must avenge him and make his daughter Queen. After the Stannis' death, the Starks were faced with the grave question on how to proceed, bound by honor, but constrained by practical considerations. Sansa, Arya and Bran sat in their father's solar mulling over what path they should take.

"We cannot hope to win the Iron Throne with such small numbers. Stannis is dead and so is his cause," Arya had said to Bran. She spoke the words that they all felt to be truth.

"What would you have me do?" Bran asked of his sisters.

Sansa turned to him with her proposal, "Wed Shireen or wed her to Rickon. Davos will follow you and so will Stannis' men if you reward them with Northern lands. To crown Shireen as Queen of the Seven Kingdoms is to kill her. You must crown her Queen in the North instead and yourself as King. From her blood, the Kings of Winter will be reborn. " She saw her words had a strong impact on Arya, who nodded her head in eager agreement.

"King in the North? That was Robb's undoing!" Bran said, shocked by Sansa's suggestion.

"No! Robb's undoing was the allegiance of Riverrun and his sisters being held hostage by the Lannisters. The Riverlands are vulnerable. The North is not, the southern approach is guarded by the impregnable fortress of Moat Cailin. The North has never been conquered by a southern invasion. Remember Torrhen Stark surrendered in the Inn of the Kneeling Man, in the Riverlands. Had he stayed in the North and waited for the battle to come to him, perhaps the outcome would have been different. The Targaryens with their dragons did not conquer Dorne after all, and the North is larger and more inhospitable."

"What should I tell the riverlords then? To our uncles Edmure and the Blackfish? They are our kin and we wish to sever our ties to them?," Bran replied.

"After Littlefinger's death, the Blackfish declared himself as my lord protector. He said my guardianship fell to him and the right to ordain my marriage flowed from it. He wished me to marry the new Lord Arryn, our marriage would unite the armies of the Vale and the armies of the North, and together we would crush the Lannisters, regain the Riverlands and ultimately I and Harry would sit on the Iron Throne as rulers by conquest. Littlefinger was dead, but the Blackfish would replace him, and continue the path that the mockingbird had carved. But I didn't want that, any of it. I wanted to return to Winterfell and what other demands were made of me, I didn't care. You say that the Tullys are our kin, but do you really believe that in your heart? Do any of our lady mother's children see themselves as Tullys?" Sansa posed, her arms spread wide in question as she looked both into Bran's and Arya's faces.

Sansa continued, "When Tommen rode in a tourney, he yelled 'Casterly Rock' -"

And Arya picked up her argument, "And when Joffrey came to Winterfell, he wore a surcoat divided down the middle, on one side was the crowned stag and on the other side the lion. Cersei Lannister taught her children to be proud, that their mother's house was equal to their father's house, the royal house itself. Our lady mother Catelyn Stark taught no such lessons to her own children."

Sansa threw out, "And my experiences with the Tullys have taught me only to be wary of them. Lysa Tully was an appalling woman. That letter she sent to Mother, full of lies about the Lannisters, that was the match that started the entire conflagration. It was not enough that she killed Jon Arryn, she must bring her sister's family down as well. She betrayed everyone for the love of a man who despised her. She -"

"She had her hardships, Sansa. You should pity her," Bran said.

It was Arya now who was overcome with emotion. "Hardships? She was married to an old man who treated her coldly and who could not give her strong sons. Is this what you think constitutes hardship in the world of women? The women who are born as smallfolk live a life without complaint in such a state of subjugation that neither of you can conceive, not one in thousands as fortunate as that fucking cow," Arya spat. Arya had lived with the smallfolk, and seen the horrors of war in the Riverlands and the wanton cruelty of not just men of Gregor Clegane's ilk but wolves as well. Arya had told her sister of the rape stocks at Harrenhal, of the women hung along the countryside _They Lay with Lions_ as their epitaphs. Such were the fate of women who had neither a strong man nor a noble name to protect themselves.

"Only wolves are our kin, our pack. Lysa Tully a monster, Edmure Tully a bumbling fool and the Blackfish a man who would use us for his own purposes." Arya said after she calmed down.

Sansa nodded, "I have been schooled in that lesson well. The riverlords will settle their own affairs. We can do nothing more for them or they for us. We must look to protecting the North and our own interests."

Bran weighed his sisters words, and then announced his decision, "So be it. The Starks are done with their southron ambitions." And so Shireen Baratheon was wed to Rickon, Bran's heir. The riverlords did settle their disputes amongst themselves, with the blood that flowed in another wedding, the wedding of Daven Lannister to his Frey wife. But the Stark retreat into their Kingdom of the North left a bitter taste and nowhere was Bran scorned as the Crippled King with as much passionate intensity as in the lands of his mother's birth.

* * *

"You forget, not only Dany and Aegon were dragonspawn. Jon was as well. Mercy is not always a weakness, sometimes it can prove itself to be a boon. Not all Freys are evil, would you kill Edmure's babe or the squire that served Robb? Would you sentence an innocent for the crime of his blood ... Joffrey would beat me for that every reason. We are not Lannisters. Would you have the singers compose for the Starks their own version of the Rains of Castamere?"

"Why not? That song ended many a rebellion while it still lay in the traitor's heart. You have a weak heart, Sansa. It will be your undoing, as it was our father's." Arya grabbed a handful of dirt from the ground, from the dirt she pulled a worm. She wriggled the worm free and then plopped it into her mouth, chewing it with a look of nonchalance. "There, I have killed a worm and devoured it. Go ahead, weep for it. I know you want to."

Sansa laughed and then made a sour face. Arya was so disgusting. "Sometimes I think I should have a better heart than I do. I am not the Mother Above, just a human woman with all of the frailties of that station. Sweetrobin, our cousin, he was a pathetic boy, but there was little purposeful malice in him, just petulance. He asked me if I was his new mother after Aunt Lysa died, and I said I suppose I was. But I did not do all that a mother should do for her son. I failed him but that is not what troubles me at night. What troubles me is how little it effects me. I ought to cry for him but the tears will not come."

"If you do not cry for our cousin, why cry for some Frey?" Arya asked.

"I do not beg for the life of a Frey for their sake but for yours, Arya. Remember our conversations on Yi Ti salt? The rise of large armies of men who are now smallfolk instead of knights, the end of the divine right of kings... I was in King's Landing the day of that the riots broke out when Myrcella left for Dorne. The crowd engulfed us, they threw abuses at King Joffrey and Queen Cersei. _Bastard! Whore! Brotherfucker!_ The abuses were mixed in with cries of _Justice! King Robb the Young Wolf! Stannis!_ But at last all the various cries became one cry. _Feed us! Bread! Bread! We want bread!_ You would give the realm Queen Vengeance. But it is not vengeance that the people cry for. It is bread. You told Bran and me that we knew nothing of the lives of the smallfolk, the subjugation and hardships in which they lived. You do and so does Aegon, for you have lived as one of them. Remember that when you seek your revenge. Remember how little they care when the high lords play the game of thrones. Oh I do not advise you to be passive, on the contrary. Take the Crossing from the Freys, punish those who have been proven to be guilty of the Red Wedding. But be merciful to those who beg sincerely for forgiveness. Cersei Lannister is dead, by your own hand is she not? Have you not feasted on vengeance? Are you not engorged with it? _"_

Arya sputtered on her wine upon hearing Sansa's last sentence. "Oh, I'm not as stupid as you think me Arya. That day we walked together in the crypts, you said that I was brave, _Let us seek their graves,_ but Cersei Lannister stilled lived, scorned by men, but with the breath of life in her. You left that very night, to travel to Bear Island to visit Lyanna Mormont or so you claim. But you returned weeks later with a sly smile on your face and then the ravens came bearing the news of Cersei's demise. Sometimes in your sleep you whisper her name, do you know that? Her name and others. After you came back, only the names of those other men crossed your lips."

Arya grinned at her, "I'm glad you sorted it out. I wanted to tell you but wasn't sure how to. I wish we could share confidences Sansa, we're sisters, the same blood beats in our hearts... That day we walked in the crypts, you said you feared the Kings of Winter, they judged you for your lack of bravery. I feel the weight of their judgment as well, but not for my lack of bravery. They judge me for my stupidity. Shortly after father's death, I met a man, a Faceless Man. I did him a service and in return he offered me three lives. I could have destroyed House Lannister with his gift, instead I wasted it on nobodies!"

"I do not think the war could have been averted after father was executed. Tywin Lannister's death did not change the course of it," Sansa replied.

Arya gave Sansa a look that said _You Stupid,_ though she had the courtesy not to say it. "I would not have killed Tywin Lannister or Littlefinger or any of those great masterminds. Three lives, Sansa .."

Arya held up three fingers of her right hand, and with left hand, she curled each finger one by one, calling out the names of her kills, until her right hand was a fist. " ... for three Lannister princes, Joffrey, Tommen and Myrcella. The throne would have passed to Stannis then and Robb would have sued for peace."

Sansa was shocked. While Joffrey was a monster, Tommen and Myrcella were sweet children, moreover, they were not Freys that Sansa and Arya had never met. Tommen had sat next to Arya during supper and Myrcella had done needlework with the both of them. _I wish we could share confidences,_ Arya has said and Sansa saw what sharing confidences would involve. Arya's dark heart was a frightening and mesmerizing abyss to gaze into. "Tommen was -"

"Tommen was too stupid to live. Of course, they sat me next to the fat one when King Robert came to Winterfell. You did not have to listen to him prattle on like a baby. He was the same age as our brother Bran, but you would not know it, the difference between them was like night and day. Bran already knew a lord's duty but that mewling kitten rambled on and on about outlawing beets. I could have punched him! Well it makes no matter now. The only Lannister that I managed to kill was that bitch Cersei, the rest slipped through my fingers to my regret. I've read your History, Bran and I both, you are entirely too kind to them, especially Jaime Lannister. Oh were he alive now, instead of moldering in some unknown grave. Bran and I have jested how funny it would be if Bran could push him out a window from a great height."

Sansa didn't know what to say to that, perhaps her History was too clouded by her friendship with Tyrion and his own views on his family. Tyrion had provided so much support for her work, that he was almost an unacknowledged coauthor. "The Maid of Tarth told me that Jaime gave her Oathkeeper as a sacred reminder of the oath they owed to our lady mother, the oath to find us. Brienne said that Jaime died searching for me..."

"And did she say what he meant to do when he found you?" asked Arya.

"He told Brienne that he wished me to be happy as the wife of some burly blacksmith or a fat-faced innkeep and fill that man's house with children."

"Ah, what he wish for was for you to forget you were a Stark so that you and your line may never threaten him and his line. The wife of an innkeep? Should I tell you what the life an innkeep's wife would have entailed? Especially one with your pretty face? Have I told you the story of Gregor Clegane, his rats, the innkeep's daughter and their demand for change? It would curdle your ears. I took the life of Gregor's pet rat Chiswyck as forfeit after I heard that tale, it sickened me! _Fucking Lannisters_! They would destroy us for their betterment and then pat themselves on the back for their kindness." Arya stood up and she took her knife out from it sheath and threw it violently against the oak tree as if she could slay the ghost of Jaime Lannister.

"Tyrion never raped you, but did he send you back to your family when he had the chance? Jaime died searching for you, of that I can only thank the Gods, had he found you, he would have dealt you a fate little better than the one Littlefinger dished out to Jeyne Poole. There is no safety except sharp steel and strong arms, Sansa, you know this well. A lady must have the command of strong men or be protected by them. Outside this privileged circle, women are but prey to monsters and broken men." Arya sat down again, she appeared desperately tired with the effort of what she had said. And the then the most astonishing thing happened, Arya appeared to be on the verge of tears. She could not look at Sansa, but instead looked at her feet, her lips trembling and her eyes cloudy with the weight of her unshed tears.

"Shh, shh, Arya, its alright. Nothing can hurt us now. All that was lost has been regained. I'm fine now, we all are." Sansa held her tightly.

Arya struggled against her, forcing Sansa to release her. "I have a confession to make. I know about you and Sandor Clegane. I saw you together and I told Bran about it."

Sansa blushed furiously, "Lord Mors, your cat! You're a skinchanger, like Bran. But not like him exactly. He would never misuse his gift to spy on his family. You had no right! How dare you!"

"I didn't mean to! I saw him enter your room when I wore the skin of Lord Mors. I thought he meant to do you some mischief. To steal your smallclothes while you were gone and smell them as he lay in his lonely bed. I've known about his sad obsession over you for years, you were all he talked about when he kidnapped me. How long have you serviced him? Since King's Landing? Since you've flowered? He told me of a song you gave him in King's Landing and how he wished he would have raped you."

Sansa was taken aback. Sandor never said exactly what kind of conversations him and Arya had during their travels through the Riverlands. Only that he had not hurt Arya, would never hurt Arya or anyone or anything that Sansa loved. _I did my best to protect the wolf-bitch_ , he swore. "We became lovers that very night you left for Bear Island or Casterly Rock or wherever you went. Though I've always been drawn to him even as a girl in King's Landing. He's never beat me or raped me or whatever other ills you think. You don't know him, you misjudge him, he's -"

"Stop! I don't misjudge him and neither does Bran. Or else he wouldn't be here in Winterfell or receive that lordship that you schemed for him. I know he's not a raper or a man that enjoys beating and belittling women and children. He's the King of Bullshit. He threatened me many times with a beating but never followed through with it. He's not as bad as his reputation would have, but neither is he a good man. Ask him his good deeds, and he will make an accounting of them and most of them will be related to you. You lure him with your pretty innocent face and the promise of what lies between your legs as I lure Lady Vengeance with a piece of chicken. He is not your equal, _in character_ , I'm not going to belabor other ways in which he falls short, they are small things."

Arya laughed mirthlessly now, "Do you know how we jested that Aegon is the maiden's fantasy? Do you realize that you're the equivalent? You're the broken man's fantasy."

Brienne had explained to Sansa about broken men, they saw scores of them on the road from the Vale and were always careful to avoid them. Brienne had told Sansa, _You must beware of these broken men and fear them. Battle has worn their spirits down, for some this happens at first battle for others the hundred-and-first. They take a wound, and when that's half-healed they take another. There is never enough to eat, their shoes fall to pieces from marching and their clothes are torn and rotting. If they want new shoes or a warmer cloak, first they take it off a corpse, but before long they steal from the living - they steal other men's sheep and other men's chickens and then its a short step from stealing other men's daughters. They watch their brothers die one by one until one day they look around all their friends and kin are gone and they are fighting beneath a banner they hardly recognize. The man breaks and steals away and all the kings and lords and gods mean less to him than a haunch of meat that will let him live another day or a skin of wine that will let him drown his fear and sorrow for a few hours. The man lives from day to day, from meal to meal, more beast than man. Broken men are not evil, the deserve our pity though they may be just as dangerous._

A memory unbidden came to Sansa. That _night_ , the wildfire had set the river itself ablaze and filled the very air with green flame. Even in the castle, she had afraid, outside she could scare imagine it. He had lead three sorties out and lost half of his men before he broke. When he came to her, his face was covered in blood, eyes white and wide and terrifying, the burnt corners of his mouth twitching again and again and the _smell_. Sweat and sour wine and stale vomit and over it all the reek of blood, blood, blood.

Arya continued, "There was an Inn where the Tickler and Polliver met their ends, slain by my hand and the Hound's. All those broken men stood there and they talked about you. _A pretty girl, honey sweet_ , said the Tickler. And the Hound, the King of Broken Men, nodded in agreement, and added _courteous, a proper lady_. They all licked their lips thinking about you, a highborn lady sweet and innocent who would love them despite the ugliness in their souls."

"What did Sandor Clegane tell you that you should love him so? Did he tell you that there were no true knights. And did you believe him?"

"I see that you did. Why wouldn't you? What men have you known? Who have been your suitors? Joffrey, Tyrion, Littlefinger, and Harrold Hardyng. Against them, why Sandor Clegane is a maiden's dream. It is only natural that you should become so enamored with him. But there are true knights Sansa. Aegon is one. I've known several, Lord Beric was one, there was a blacksmith's apprentice, and Ned Dayne. If you would but let us send for Ned Dayne..."

"No" Sansa said, coldy but said nothing further. She was so tired, dog-tired, she loathed making the slightest effort. She felt the deep laziness of fresh grief. Like that night after her father's death when she would lie in bed shivering from cold but too lazy to get up and find another blanket.

"Do you know why I weep? I weep for you. For the company that you have kept that you should esteem a man like Sandor Clegane so highly. You have given to him what should have been given to a husband. And do not think I speak of a scrap of skin, Sansa." Arya shook her head in pity but she continued her speech, each word as harsh and as cruel as the lash from a whip. "You're like a whipped dog. Kicked and beaten so many times that you would love the first one that showed you a scrap of genuine affection. Not all that has been lost has been regained. Would that we had the power to restore you to yourself."


	12. Sansa 10

Arya came to bed that night bearing two gifts for Sansa. In one hand she held a cup of hot cacao and in the other hand she cradled a cat that Sansa had never seen before around Winterfell. The day had been most eventful for everyone at Winterfell. She had gone to bed after supper but not before making a moving speech in front of the guests dining in the Great Hall wishing Arya and Aegon felicity in their future marriage. She ended her speech with a song, the song that had so stirred Arya and Aegon both, _Two Hearts that Beat as One_.

Sansa had feared Daenerys reaction to the news of the impending marriage of Arya and Aegon, but her fears had not borne fruit. Daenerys was not happy to hear of it, but she took the news with only a modicum of displeasure.

"Your sister has lead Aegon astray," Dany told her at supper, her voice tut-tutting the bait and switch. "I fear that time will prove that event to be the regret of us all. But what is done is done. One cannot besmirch one sister and then marry the other. Men are ever weak when it comes to the matters of the flesh." Behind her, Sansa could see Bran perk his ears up. He was listening but pretending not to listen. _There is something between them_ , Sansa thought, remembering that box she found in his workroom today. He had sent a note requesting that she attend him in his workroom after she returned from hawking with Arya. When she got there, she saw that he busy talking to the kennelmaster. Sansa walked around his workroom, inspecting the various items he built and his sketches strewn across the tables. Some of his ideas were marvelous in their impracticality, concepts impossible to build, but she admired the ingenious mind that conceive them. In the corner of the room she saw a large box, the kind used for the transport of bones. She opened the box, to her relief inside were not the bones of Jon. But the box did hold a remnant, of one Dany had known and one who had loved her well. The box held a tooth of Rhaegal, as well as a small sketch with the title of _Lady with the Disheveled Hair_ inscribed on the bottom. It was very beautiful, unlike any artwork she had ever seen before, intimate and tender and reverential. It was a sketch of Dany's face and hair and the tops of her shoulders. Her face was in profile, downcast, illuminated by an inner light with her hair surrounding her in disheveled, wispy tendrils.

"Oh Gods ...what a long ride back it will be to King's Landing." Dany sighed.

"And what will happen to you now Sansa? Are you not displeased that you've been cast off?" she added.

"My desire is to stay in Winterfell, to provide comfort and aid to my brother Bran." Her thoughts belied her words. She saw herself sitting in front of a roaring fire comforting a sad old dog.

Dany guffawed at Sansa's words. "I do not believe that you wish to stay a maid, not truly. No you will marry a lord one day. You are young and love's appetite is at its hottest in the young, you will yearn for your own downfall. Soon enough you will marry one of your brother's bannermen since the Starks have put aside their southron ambitions. I can see it now ... a grim-faced Northern lord sitting in his hall besides a roaring fire, you sit next to him as sweet and as obedient as the pack of dogs that surround you both. He finishes his wine and says 'Arise woman we go to bed'. You follow him into the bedchamber and lie beneath him trembling and sighing for his pleasure. You bear his children and smile appreciatively when he tells you for the hundredth time the stories of his great exploits."

"You make it sound as if I would live the life of some precious doll. That story that you tell is but a short hour of the day in the life of a lady of the manor and not a displeasing hour if there is love. And besides, I have other ambitions, my History of the War. Dany, I never wanted greatness." Sansa spoke, a little defensively.

Dany continued, shaking her head at her in bemused condescension. "Some of us are borne great, some achieve greatness and some have greatness thrust upon them. I was a khaleesi of the Dothraki. I had a strong man and a swift horse, handmaids to serve me, warriors to keep me safe, an honored place in the dosh khaleen when I grew old and at that time my womb grew a son, who was prophesied to one day bestride the world. That should be enough for any woman ... but it was not enough for me. I am of the seed of kings and conquerors, I have never forgotten that. I am of the blood of the dragon."

"I've read and admired your History. Tyrion gave me a copy telling me that it was worthy of the consideration of kings. But that life that you find so beguiling, what a waste of your potential, of your blood, the blood of Bran the Builder, of a line of Kings that stretches back eight thousand years. You will spend your days with your great ambition to write about history. Had you to come to King's Landing, history would have been written about you."

* * *

Sansa spread her arms out as Arya approached, and the cat jumped into her lap and lay there contently purring. Sansa was not a cat person, she loved dogs almost exclusively, but this cat was very sweet and took to her immediately. Sansa petted the cat while inspecting its collar. It wore a collar threaded with an iron coin. On one side of the coin was the lion, the sigil of House Lannister and on the side was an inscription, the name of the cat, Lady Whiskers.

"One Lady for another Lady. A Lannister always pays their debts," Arya said, with a harsh bark of laughter. She handed Sansa a new iron coin.

"Where have you been hiding her?" asked Sansa as she removed the collar from the cat. She took off the coin Lady Whiskers wore and replaced it with the new one, one that bore the direwolf sigil.

"Maester Samwell has been keeping her in the Maester's Turret. Did you not see her when you go to visit him? He says this cat is one of the finest rat catchers he's known. I wish you to have her, keep her besides you to protect you against the grey plague."

The grey plague had spread to various lands borne by infected people and infected rats. The Citadel declared that cats were valuable guardians against the spread of the plague for they were the natural predators of rats. The maesters had begged the high lords they served to pass strict penalties against the stealing or murder of cats. But they had begged in vain. The High Septon, a uneducated sparrow, said cats were to be regarded as evil, as their natures were not subservient to their human masters and they tended to be noisy at night. A mass slaughter of cats occurred in the wake of his pronouncement, they were murdered in droves as smallfolk either killed them in superstition or killed them in combination with the slaughter of other animals in a desperate attempt to control the spread of the plague. Finally King Tommen, against the advice of his Small Council who were afraid to question the wisdom of the powerful and popular High Seption, had decreed the outlawing of their murder without cause. The maesters said this was the boy king's only good deed of note during his disastrous reign. But it came too late and the plague spread unchecked through the Seven Kingdoms, abetted by the senseless slaughter of cats.

"Thank you Arya," Sansa said, smiling. She knew Arya loved her well.

Arya dressed for bed but did not climb into it. Instead she sat on the edge of the bed, her shoulders slumped, her hands on her chin.

"How did you kill Cersei Lannister?" Sansa asked gently, perceiving Arya wished for confession and absolution.

Of the Starks, only Sansa kept the Faith of the Seven. The Faith's power and strength was on the ascendancy, it grew ever more potent each day. In the North there were few believers, but those that kept the Faith were powerful. White Harbor, the richest city in the North, was a stronghold of the Faith. Lord Davos, the second most powerful person in the Kingdom of the North, a pious adherent. The rational part of her wondered why she and Lord Davos and all the others were so seduced, the Faith of the Seven seemed the most feeble in the demonstrations of its power compared to faith of the Old Gods or to faith of the Red God. But Sansa loved going to the sept in Winterfell, the great shafts of rainbow-colored sunlight slanting down through the crystals in the high windows, the candles burning bright, their little flames twinkling like stars. She would light candles in front of the seven aspects and could sometimes see the faces of her family members in the faces of those stone statues. The faces of her mother and father and Robb ever present, never moving, residing in the aspect of the Mother, the Father, and the Warrior. Bran's face shifted, appearing in both in the Crone and the Smith. Rickon's shifted as well, in the Warrior and the Smith. But it was Arya's face that shifted the most, the Stranger, the Warrior, and of most recent, the Maiden. In the sept, Sansa' spirit became suffused with the mysteries of the Faith, with its promise of redemption and mercy and justice in the afterlife. The people of Westeros cry for bread, and the Faith delivered it. It gave believers the bread of life, the bread that nourished the soul.

The rest of her family adhered to the faith of the Old Gods, which kept with no priests, no holy texts, no songs of worship. Few rites were practiced routinely other than prayer in front of the heart tree. The ritual of confession and absolution nonexistent, whatever evil men do stay with them and cannot be cleansed. Those who keep the faith of the Old Gods, return to the dark earth upon their death with both the good and evil they commit interred with their bones. They return to the weirwood trees where the Gods reside and they become a part of the Godhood. The Faith of the Seven had a great many moral teachings, the Faith of the Old Gods few. The Olds Gods said incest, kinslaying, slavery and betraying guest-right were to be abhorred. Vengeance was held as virtue amongst those who kept the Old Ways. Lord Davos had used 'Vengeance' as a powerful clarion call to spur the Northern Lords to action against King Tommen and the Boltons and the Freys who were his bannermen. The _North Remembers_ was the cry for vengeance of the Northern Lords who flocked to King Stannis, who bound them with his deliverance of a Stark restoration in Winterfell. When the tide of battle had turned for King Stannis, it marked the beginnings of a savagery released against the Boltons and the Freys that startled the Seven Kingdoms. Many harsh retributions were meted out, the last one being the ritual sacrifice of Roose Bolton and his very pregnant Frey wife to the Old Gods, their entrails hung from the heart tree in Winterfell.

"Tyrion imprisoned her in a gilded cage in one of the cottages kept separate from the castle. But it was easy gaining access to her, the servants and guards took no pleasure in their duties and I induced their sleep with a small pinch of sweetsleep, just enough for a gentle night's slumber. I brought Nymeria with me to do this deed, it was fitting that she was there, Cersei had killed her sister. Nymeria and her pack of wolves sat and howl around the cottage the night of Cerse's execution, serenading to her the words of our House."

"Cersei was awake and sitting in a chair when I came into her rooms. You would not have recognized her. She was old and fat, beneath her velvet and jewels, her body sagged and bulged. Her eyes were bloodshot from either tears or excessive drink but crazed with a forlorn despair. I came upon Cersei wearing a mask, the mask of a god of death, the Lion of Night, the god of Death in Yi Li. This god is popular in Braavos with rich men and rich women."

"She did not seem to be surprised by my arrival. She even smiled when she saw me. " _What year is it?_ she asked. _304 AL_ , I replied. _Is that all? I thought I've been here much longer than that. No one would tell me, they are all silent as the grave, my brother Tyrion built me a tomb and then buried me alive. I prayed for death and so it has come at last_ , Cersei said to me. I nodded and said _I've come to give you the gift, the gift of death, the gift of mercy_. I pitied her Sansa, she had prayed for death and I felt powerfully compelled as if our meeting was destiny, as if the Many-Faced God had heard her prayer and sent me, his former servant, to usher her to her end. The priests of the House of Black and White preach that a dark angel walks beside a person through their life. When a person's sins and suffering come become too much, the dark angel comes and takes them to the nightlands, where the stars always burn bright. I meant to give her the gift of mercy, to ease her passage and end her suffering."

"But she ruined it, she spat in my face..." Arya said, her face wrinkling in angry exasperation.

" _Show me your face, I wish to see my death_ , she said. I took off my mask and I saw that she recognized me. _The valonqar, the little sister_ , she shrieked, her madness igniting like an inferno. _So Daenerys is dead and Sansa will be queen. I thought this might future might be so, I sent my creature to Winterfell, to kill her to forestall the death of my sweet Myrcella._ She would have attacked me, but Nymeria came into the room, she stalked and checked her every time she tried to attack me. _Your abomination is dead,_ I told her, speaking of Ser Robert Strong. _Do you no have regrets for the suffering you've caused?"_

 _"By what right does the wolf judge the lion? Everything I did, I did to protect my children. A lioness must protect her cubs. You ask me what I regret? I sent Ser Robert Strong to kill your sister, I regret that he failed. I sent my brother Jaime to find you to cut off your hand, I regret that he failed. You call my babies abominations, they were innocent, conceived in love, love greater than you'll ever know. Sansa killed them! Killed my babies! Killed my beloved Jaime! I regret that I was not born a man... Would that I had been born with a cock. I would kill them all, every mouse that dared to mock me. I would rape you, sow you with my seed as you screamed and then piss in your skull. I don't want your mercy or your pity,_ she said, and then hocked her spit at my face. _"_

"Her lack of remorse and insolence enraged me. Nymeria lunged at her and held her down while I prepared Cersei's death, a cup of poison, a favorite method of death in the House of Black and White. I told her _You ask for no mercy, so I will not spare you any. I'm going to teach you what wolves do to vile, scheming bitches. The strangler will be your end, as it was Joffrey's. You will join him in the Seven Hells. This is my sentence I pass to you. Now, I would look into your eyes and hear your last words, as was the custom of my father and forefathers."_

_"These are my last words, a prayer to the Many-Faced God who grants death to those who are willing to pay the price. House Stark may your children die and your house burn, may death and destruction be your reward and the reward of those who follow you. Brandon Stark, may his bones dissolve and his cock wither, may his own blood scorn and despise him. Rickon Stark, may death and corruption be his bride, may the grey plague be his marriage bed. Sansa Stark, may dogs rape her, may they fuck her bloody and rip her heart out while it still beats in her chest. Arya Stark, may the God curse you! Let Him take your eyes so that you live in darkness, let Him take your ears so that you live in silence, let Him take your legs, so that you crawl on the ground. Arya Stark, may your children die and may bitterness and despair consume you for the rest of your life. Many-Faced God all that I have I give to you, let me the suffer the fiery pits of the Seven Hells but make my prayer so."_

_"_ I poured the contents of the cup down her throat but she gulped it down eagerly. You know how it ends, having witnessed Joffrey's death. She died clawing at her throat in submission to Nymeria. The last thing she saw was two squinting yellow eyes, the eyes of the wolf. Afterward, I sat there for many moments. Nymeria's pack entered into Cersei's room. They smelled the cat who was hiding under the bed. I gathered Lady Whiskers into my arms while I watched the wolves tear the rooms the pieces. Nymeria chewed off one of Cersei's hands, as she would have done to me."

Sansa reeled from Arya's confession. She saw Joffrey dying, but as he clawed at his throat and the blood ran down his fingers, his face turned into Cersei's face, beautiful as it was when Sansa knew her, with her eyes bright and burning with a feverish heat, the eyes of wildfire. Sansa stared now into Arya's eyes, those dark grey pools and knew with certainty that Arya had worn Nymeria's skin when the wolf devoured Cersei's flesh. She hugged Arya fiercely, her sister allowed it for a long moment, then broke the embrace and handed Sansa the cup of hot cacao.

Sansa took the cup and drank from it. She thought Arya had confessed for absolution, she knew now that it was not so. She did not want absolution from men or gods. She wanted Sansa to share in her dark communion. Sansa saw in her mind's eye, in the place of Nymeria, it was Lady who was devouring Cersei Lannister. But it was not her hand she ate. Lady devoured the best part of Cersei Lannister, not her brain, nor the woman parts between her legs. The best part of Cersei Lannister was her heart, she had many faults, but a lack of courage was not one of them. The lioness was lion-hearted and it was this quality that Lady wished to be imbued with.

Cersei's curse was disturbing, there was a power in her words that left Sansa shaken. _If the God curses Arya, let me share in her punishment_ , Sansa prayed. She loved Arya well.

"How does it taste? Wondrous?" Arya asked. Were they speaking of hot cacao or vengeance?

"Not wondrous anymore, it is no longer new. It tastes appalling," Sansa replied, the strange and remarkable flavor flooding her mouth. "Appalling in its potent deliciousness. Erotic as springtime, erotic as sin."

* * *

Sansa woke that morning with a terrible cold and stayed in bed for the remainder of the week. Maester Samwell advised Arya to sleep elsewhere, so as to not catch the contagion. Arya would come and go and they would chat about her departure to King's Landing and who amongst the Stark retainers would follow her. But for the most part, Sansa spent many an hour alone in the privacy her room. One future life, the life of the Younger Queen, had dissolved into a grey mist, what would replace it now?

Bran came into her room towards the end of the week. He looked troubled, his eyes haunted.

"What troubles you Bran?" she asked.

"Nymeria is barren," Bran replied, "we have mated her with other wolves and with her littermates, but she will not whelp. When Nymeria and Summer and Shaggydog die, that will be the end of the direwolves. All the old things that are not dead already are dying, direwolves, giants, mammoths. The world will not see their like again."

Sansa said nothing but shared his pain. They both knew, without realizing that the other one knew, that the fruitfulness of direwolves and the fruitfulness of their masters were entwined somehow. Summer had fathered pups, but the pups were weak and all died young. Only Shaggydog's seed proved hardy, his mongrel pups with lesser wolves healthy and thriving.

Sansa broke their silent understanding by introducing a new topic. "Will you replace Lord Davos?"

Bran had informed her after she had returned from hawking that Lord Davos would travel to King's Landing to take up the position of Hand of the King, temporarily filled by the ailing Barristan Selmy. The son of Flea Bottom was the finest choice she could have thought of, the realm would have no better servant and he was well loved by Arya and well admired by Aegon and Dany.

"Yes, I think I must. There is too much I'd like to achieve to do it alone," he replied.

"You should choose a Northman, no other man who had served Stannis is worthy of such a position," Sansa said, remembering the controversy over the choice of Lord Davos who was viewed with suspicion as a upstart foreigner until one of his sons married into the Manderly family.

"You know I once thought that if I was as a good a lord as father, then I would be satisfied. After the razing of Winterfell, when I was still a boy and a fugitive, I meet Lord Liddle in a cave. He told me that when father was in Winterfell, a maiden girl could walk the kingsroad in her name-day gown and still go unmolested."

"But I'm a man now and a King and I see that there much about father's rule that was a delusion."

"Oh, I don't mean that the Liddle lied to me intentionally. He's a mountain lord and he taught me the common delusion of all lords. The first principles of the folly of that lesson has roots more than twenty five years old. _Ramsay Bolton, Ramsay Snow_. If I asked his mother whether father as Lord of Winterfell meant she had been unmolested, she would spit in my face. Roose Bolton admitted that his bastard was a product of rape, seeded by the illicit practice of the lord's right to First Night. I do not think Roose Bolton is the only lord to keep the First Night either, I suspect our great friends, the Umbers do as well, and certain mountain clans."

Bran laughed bitterly, "Where the Old Gods rule, old customs linger. The North is a savage place Sansa, do not deceive yourself that because Northmen are more honorable, it must mean that they are more just."

Sansa swallowed hard, she had never doubted that her father's rule as Lord of Winterfell had been anything less than perfect and just. All smallfolk in Winterfell loved him, it never occurred to her that the smallfolk outside of Winterfell might have felt differently. "You are right Bran. The North is a savage place, children do not stay young for very long in this country. They must work hard. Some are forced to grow wise before they grow old."

"You should ordain justices to tour the North with the authority to hold trials and dispense justice. That will curtail abuses of power that never reach your ears. You should codify laws so that justice is wielded boldly and consistently, not giving one reason today and another tomorrow. You should hold an inquest with your bannermen, write a charter, a declaration between sovereign and subjects, regarding the liberties endowed to the King, and the liberties endowed to the lords, and the rights of the smallfolk that no King or lord can take away."

Bran chuckled at her proudly, "Sansa, I've made my choice, the best candidate for Hand will not be a Northman - but a Northman's daughter. I would name you Hand of the King."

"A woman as Hand?" Sansa said, it was a thing unheard of.

Bran shrugged, "Lady Nym sat on the Small Council. Lord Davos was right, you were meant to rule. And I will raise you to lordship in your own right. I will relinquish my claim as your lord protector, you have the right to choose your own life. A cadet branch of the Stark family will be established at the Dreadfort for you and your heirs. No man will command you. I would give you my voice and responsibilities as large as the North itself."

"I pass to you the cup that King Robert once pass to father, will you drink from it?" he asked.

Sansa's lips trembled but she already knew her answer. This was her destiny, she felt a powerful propulsion towards it. She was her father's daughter, both fathers, Eddard Stark who dowered her with his candor, and Petyr Baelish who dowered her with his canny.

* * *

Aegon and Dany left Winterfell with the Starks for an expedition to see the Wall. It was ruined and in rubble, but still a magnificent and awe-inspiring wonder of the world. Sansa begged off, claiming illness. The trip would take a few days and it would mean that she would not be able to spend Sandor's name day with him had she gone. She was his friend long before she was his lover, she mustn't forget her courtesies.

When Sandor swore his sword to her service, she had felt a tremendous relief, the cessation of the fear that worn her down since her father's death. Brienne had also sworn herself to her service, but she did not trust the Maid of Tarth, hers was a weak devotion, made vulnerable by her obvious love for Jaime Lannister and Renly Baratheon. Her lack of trust was not unwise, Brienne had tried to kill King Stannis after Sansa was safe in Winterfell under the protection of Lord Manderly. Brienne failed in that attempt, but did unwittingly succeed in killing another person responsible for the death of Renly, the Red Priestess Melissandre. For her crime, she had been burned alive. It was a horrible death that haunted Sansa to this very day. But the glory and esteem that Brienne had been denied in life was granted to her in death. In an odd twist of fate, the Faith of the Seven declared the Maid of Tarth to be a martyr, a holy woman, who had died slaying one of the Faith's most bitter enemies.

Sansa never doubted Sandor's allegiance to her. It was as hard as iron, completely unencumbered by feelings or loyalties for other people or other causes. When Bran was declared King in the North, and the Starks restored to their power, Sansa swore that Sandor's loyalty to her would not go unrewarded, she would be the making of him. Sansa knew his secret sorrow, she would raise him to lordship and grant him lands of his own, she would find a good woman to cherish him, and she would see to the education of his children so that they would rise even higher than he had.

Sansa dressed for his name day supper in the same grey gown that had been made for Aegon's visit to Winterfell. The seamstress had altered it so that it fit her beautifully. Sandor came into her rooms for supper, she was glad to see that he looked very well groomed tonight, handsome after his fashion, and wore the dark colors, grey and black, that suited him best. But he made no move to hold her or to kiss her. He was shy, as shy and as nervous as their first night together. His shyness elicited her shyness in return. She had no idea what she really wanted from him. She did not blame Arya and Bran for their condemnations, there was truth in them, she recognized that now. _I was a whipped dog who never knew whether she would be kicked or petted_ , she thought. Her family, they had thought to save from herself, they acted in good faith with her welfare in mind, in accordance to their principles and upbringing. Her people, the Starks, were right to mistrust pleasure. Life had seemed to be instructing her that the satisfaction of most appetites carried within them the seeds of frustration. It was the common self-deception of all men to believe otherwise.

"How long do we have together?" he asked her, his eyes still retained that expression of the balefulness of an old dog.

"All night long," she replied, before realizing that perhaps he meant the question differently.

The sat down to dinner, she had the new cook prepare all his favorites. Each of them struggled to make conversation initially.

"Hmm, this honeyed chicken tastes differently today than what I've had before," he replied.

"We have a new cook in training. Pate will leave with Arya to King's Landing," she answered.

"That's a pity, he made the best pies," said Sandor.

Sansa nodded, agreeing, "He had a great singing voice too, he'd often sing in the kitchens. We are all going to miss him. But his loyalty is with Arya, and King's Landing was the place of his birth, he sold his mother's pies in the streets of the city as a boy. Arya means to give him a special place of honor as cook to the Younger Queen. I think Arya's a little apprehensive of Aegon's appetite for rich Pentoshi food. Lord Davos told her there is a Pentoshi man who sits on the Small Council who fatter than the North's own late Lord Manderly, who had been so fat he could not sit on a horse." At this comment, Sansa had to giggle. "I remembered Arya's fury at having to sit next to the fat one as she called him, Tommen Baratheon, when King Robert visited Winterfell. Aegon will not be allowed to age with anything less than grace."

Sandor laughed with her, though she noticed he sat up straighter and seemed to puffed himself up, as if silently letting her know he would never let himself go to fat. She smiled at him behind her cup of wine, and leaned over and rubbed his muscular biceps. He caught her before she withdrew, giving her a quick and light kiss, and the sweetness of the kiss went down through her, unbearable.

"There are rumors that you've kept yourself away in your rooms because you're heartbroken over Aegon choosing Arya over you. They say you weep bitter tears because your sister has lead your intended astray." Sandor said.

" _If Aegon chose Arya over Sansa, then his brain is addled. But there's no accounting for the tastes of some men. They'd rather have maggoty cheese than fresh curds,_ or so I told Grenn."

Sansa sputtered on her wine to hear Sandor's description of Arya as maggoty cheese. She gave him her lord's face, but it didn't have any power over him and he barked with laughter. "Arya is very beautiful, you cannot deny it," she said heatedly. She was always defending one against the other.

"I'm speaking of the her character, not her countenance," he threw back. "Besides, you cannot deny you like it when I'm rude and obnoxious. Else why do you laugh so hard when I tell you the story of how I slew Lord Beric?"

Sansa mulled over that question. That was her favorite of the stories of his exploits, she often asked him to recount it, while she sat on his lap, and tongued the hole where his left ear had been, like some tavern wench. Lord Beric had been the true knight in that tale, and Sandor had been his foe, but all her sympathies had lain with Hound and none with the Lightening Lord. _You were so brave, so brave, Sandor. What a dirty trick Lord Beric played, to light his sword on fire. But you showed them, showed them what frauds they were, you exposed their pretensions and you were so funny, you laughed at them..."_ she said, in adulation. _Come on, who wants to die?_ she would mimic his choicest lines as he retold them to her.

She thought of his battle with Lord Beric and of another battle... the day of bread riots in King's Landing, the crowd howled at them, her blood running down her cheek where the stone had struck her, the garlic stink of the man who had tried to pull her off her horse into the throng of more men like himself. But Sandor had leapt at them, his sword a blur of steel that trailed red mist where it swung. They had him thirty to one, yet they ran like rats. Sansa stared into his eyes now, seeing her rosebud face peeking out from his grey pupils. "I wish I could warg into you Sandor. Or else I wish I could grow as small as a seed, a tiny mustard seed, and you would swallow me and carry me in your body, safe and warm from all harm."

"Little Bird," he murmured, pulling her in for a deeper kiss, "your protection is all of my ambition. I want no other reward."

They finished the rest of their meal in good cheer. She was so relaxed with him, in a way that she was not relaxed with anyone, not her family, nor any female friend she had before. She had thought of herself as a house with many apartments, he alone had been able to walk through the various rooms in her head, the place where the child Sansa played and the darker passages where no one else was allowed.

She told Arya that she taken Sandor for a lover the night Arya had left for Casterly Rock. But she was wrong, they had lovers before that, perhaps at the onset of his convalescence, when she spent all of her free hours with him in his room chatting and reading with him. They had feasted on love in all its many courses, sad and happy, romantic and realistic, at times as furious as a storm and at times as comfortable as putting on an old pair of clothes.

"If we had never lain together, still we would have always wanted to be with each other, and that would have been its own scandal," she told him, seemingly apropos of nothing. Yet he nodded at her as if she was a great sage and smiled as if he understood her ramblings exactly. He pulled her hand to beckon her onto his lap and she went to him willingly. She sat on his lap with her arms encircled around his great bull neck, breathing in deeply of the scent of him, wood and leather and man. He took her face in his hands and kissed her on the eyes, the mouth, the forehead. With a torpid limpness, she allowed him to do what he wanted without quickening the pace. When he was done, he sighed deeply and held her close. His sigh said so much to her, it said, _I'm not hungry or thirsty or lustful. I'm not angry or sad or weary. I'm not confused or remorseful or ambitious ... Let me hold this moment._ She knew this was what he meant though he never said it, she felt the same sentiments in her heart. Their hearts beat as one. They stayed in that quiet stillness for a long time.

He lifted her up and carried her to the edge of her bed. They undressed each other, kissing and laughing, busy hands moving over each other. When at last she was naked, except for her grey hose and garters, he pulled her to him, "Lady, lay you down," he rasped in imitation of their first night together. She laid down on the bed, supporting herself up with her elbows as she watched him finish undressing.

"What are you thinking Sandor?" she whispered, as he stood before her, drinking in the sight of her it, without making any movements to join her on the bed.

"I'm thinking its my name day today. What a man sows on his name day, he reaps throughout the year,"

She giggled and then sank down into the featherbed, her arms behind her neck, her back stretching and arching off the bed. "Hmm, I'm dog-drawn," she teased him.

He came to her, lying beside her. His hand cupped her cheek caressing her possessively, she turned her lips towards it, her pink tongue darting out to lick his middle finger, then sucking on it when he pressed it deeply into her wet mouth. "Shall I give you a gift for your name day Sandor? A gift of mercy?," she said seductively after he withdrew his finger. The "gift of mercy" was their term for the lover's service that delighted him the most. He resisted her though, imprisoning her as he kissing her leisurely, a hundred times, it seemed, before his hands moved down farther. She closed her eyes in pleasure when she felt him palm her breasts, "I've often wondered what color these would be," he said, pushing her breasts tightly together, then rubbing the nipples with the pad of thumbs.

"They are exactly like I've imagined. A red rose peeping through white. Strawberries drowned in cream... " he said, flicking his tongue across one nipple and then the other.

Sansa burst out laughing, "Oh what smooth gallantries ... But tell me did not Shireen instruct you to compliment a lady on her hair, her lips, her eyes?"

He smirked at her, "Well, how can a man get to those things if his eyes never leave these?" They laughed and kissed passionately, his hands massaging her breasts. When they came up for air, she noticed the his smirk had died replaced by a solemn seriousness, "The only thing that would make them more beautiful is if they were full of milk."

What demon or imp possessed her that she would answer him so, "I dreamed that I bore your children. A boy who resembled my brother Robb and a daughter who had your eyes."

Sansa turned him over so that now she straddled him, sitting astride him as she would a horse.

He looked at her with the eyes of a man in torment. "When I lay dying under that tree by the bank of the Trident, my last thoughts were of you, how I stood there in my white cloak and let them beat you." A spasm of pain twisted his face, Sansa leaned down to rub his arms in comfort, a firm chafing pressure. "I laid there for a day before the Elder Brother found me. I lived through the agony of my pain fantasizing that you were my lady... that I was returning from a long journey and at the end of my wanderings there was you and a bed and a fire. I think that's why the Gods spared me. The Gods made me live for you, I think that they raised me from death for your personal use. If there is Seven Hells and I am to burn for my sins, I pray that the Gods will let me keep the memory of you, of us."

Something inside her broke at his confession. Sansa heard herself make a sound, a moan of agony, like a dying animal. He sat up and held her tightly, rubbing her back in a quiet cadence, his breath stirring the strands of her hair.

"Shh, shh," he gentled her.

Her muscles strained with each indrawn breath. The words came but the immensity of them overcame her. "When I was in King's Landing -" she swallowed hard, "I went to pray in the godswood in the heart of the Red Keep one night - I would move from tree to tree asking - _begging_ the Old Gods, for their aid - _Help me, send me a friend to champion me_ \- the leaves of the tree, they brushed my cheeks - I think the Gods must heard my prayers and sent you to me."

For long moments neither of them moved or spoke. "Never, never, never, leave me, Sandor. Do not stray from my side," she said fiercely. She thought she would weep, but no tears came. Her lamentations caught in her throat, making her choke.

"Sing me a song," she demanded, "sing to me that I'm your forest lass." It was the only song he had ever sung to her.

He pulled her down to bed and held her there as loomed above her. Her long thick auburn hair fell down between them, covering some of her nakedness, as if she was his wife, as if she were his bride. She heard his voice, deep and low and soothing. But the song he sang didn't start with the words _My featherbed is deep and soft_ , instead she heard the words of another song. A song that pleased all the little girls with romance in their hearts, and no doubt some little boys as well. The song was _My Lady Wife_.

He touched her cheek afterwards, and felt a wetness there that could only be tears.

* * *

"Leaving is hard," Arya said she and Sansa walked around the Winterfell, Arya silently biding goodbye to all every last stone and leaf.

"You will come to visit me in King's Landing this time next year," Arya ordered, then more gently, "there is a little someone I would have you meet," as she touched her stomach.

Sansa smiled at Arya, exultant over the news. "Yes, Your Grace. I will come and see you both... I should like to the first to wish you the happiness I pray will be yours."

"Do I have your permission to bring my husband?" she added afterward, unsteadily.

"What has Bran said about this?" Arya asked.

"He says he trusts my judgment, though he does not like my choice. He granted me rights, I am a lord in my own name, one of this bannermen, the Dreadfort is mine. I no longer required his approval, but it was good to receive his blessing nonetheless."

Arya sighed and looked at her, "We had hope you would see reason, Sansa."

"Arya, you're a woman in love ...the heart has its reasons, of which reason knows nothing."

Arya was silent for a long while, but at last she touched Sansa's arm gently, "There's no question of my disapproval. None at all. I do not believe in him, but I believe in you."

She let go, adding, "I suppose this is for the best... Why, that night before we went fishing and you sang to the crowd. The way he looked at you, I was afraid he'd crack some skulls, cast off the skin of civilization and carry you away by force into the wilderness to have his way with you like some wildling man."

They both laughed at this image and how deadly accurate it could have been. They continued their walk in quietness and companionship.

"So Bran means to allow you to establish a cadet house at the Dreadfort. Have you thought of your name or house words?" Arya asked, breaking their reveries.

"I've researched the other cadet houses. There are the Karstarks at Karhold and there were the Greystarks at Wolf's Den. But I can't come up with anything inspiring. Perhaps I should start with something simpler... what should be the colors of my house?"

Arya touched Sansa hair, "No color suits you better than green."

 _My forest lass._ "Yes, that's brilliant. Green will be my color, and Greenstark my name."

Sansa continued, "I will rename the Dreadfort. Wintergreen will be my seat."

"But what will be my house words, Arya?"

Arya pulled Sansa to her and embraced her fiercely, "May they be the words of all Stark women ... _In Winter We Flourish_."

**THE END ... SORT OF...**

* * *

 

_Author's Note:_

__

_Sandor's character was inspired by the the SansaxSandor LJ prompt, "People need touch (skin-on-skin contact) for their psychological well-being. Sandor's never had a lot of that, but now he's in Sansa's service, she touches him all the time . . ."_

_To me that suggested a certain psychology, of a man "scarce used, scarce loved" who had the emotional shyness and awkwardness of a teenager. I wanted to portray him as someone younger than his years, and Sansa as someone older than hers._

_Sansa's character was also inspired by challenge that was posted in the LJ community, that Sansan fans saw Sansa as Sandor's prize. The latter part of this story was my response to that throwdown. My final argument is the same as the French philosopher and mathematician, Blaise Pascal. The heart has its reasons ..._

_Some of Sansa's words were taken from the writings of a medieval female intellectual, Christine de Pizan. I do see Sansa emerging as an intellectual. In canon, she's the only Stark shown reading, she's also noted as reading and writing better than any of her brothers. The Starks were well educated, given that they had Maester Luwin and Winterfell had one of the best libraries in Westeros. Additionally, the comparison between Sansa/Joffrey and Bran/Tommen in terms of their intellectual abilities was well, stark. Christine de Pizan was a writer of some lovely poems to her beloved husband. I used one, "A Sweet Thing is Marriage", as the basis of their last love scene in this chapter. You can read it here:_ http://mw.mcmaster.ca/scriptorium/cdpizan5.html

_Now as to why Sansa's great ambition is to write a History of the War. In the story it serves the purpose of introducing Sansa's inner qualities to Aegon and Dany, who don't know her before arriving in Winterfell. But it is also, my nudge, nudge, wink, wink at the readers. I mean to imply that Sansa wrote a historical work that served as the basis of the books we all love. And its her authorship which explains why the Starks are the noble heroes of these books. But its also her magnanimous spirit, the same one that comforted Lancel Lannister, that explains why magnificent bastards like the Lannisters or tormented souls like Sandor are executed with so much compassion. Which isn't to say, she wrote the books, because how would she know the inner workings of the mind of Areo Hotah? Instead, this is what happened ..._

**One Thousand Years Later in a realm called New Westeros**

A man, a descendent of Samwell Tarly, similar to his forefather in his love of books and music and kittens and food, had a powerful dream one night, a green dream...

"Good Ser, do you know me?" said the dazzling green lady.

"Every schoolchild knows of you my lady. You were Hand to many sovereigns that governed during the Rebirth, King Brandon of the Kingdom of the North, Queen Daenerys and her consorts of the Five Kingdoms, and even Queen Shireen and King Rickon of the Six Kingdoms in your dotage. I loved reading your History as a boy..." the man replied. It had an elegant simplicity and was wonderfully thrilling despite being a work that was a thousand years old.

"I wrote the History of the Wars that consumed the age in which I lived. But you will write what I didn't and never could. Not a history of kings and war, but the saga of my time, a time where heroes still walked the earth. You will write the song of ice and fire, but all men and women, great and small, will be in your melody. From Jon Snow and Daenerys Targaryen to Septon Meribald and Podrick Payne. This cup I pass to you. Drink from it and all the gold in Casterly Rock will be yours."

"Where should I start?" he asked his muse excitedly. He had meant his next novel to be a science fiction tome set in space, but this idea was so much better.

"Start in Winterfell, start here...", she kissed him on his cheek. He blushed, captivated, he was an old man, but she was very beautiful and he had always been susceptible to women with sunset in their hair.

The lady dissolved, but another powerful image emerged.

_Half-buried in bloodstained snow, a huge dark shape, bigger than a pony, lay slumped in death. Ice had formed in its shaggy grey fur, its eyes crawled with maggots, and its mouth full of yellow teeth. But beneath the corpse of the direwolf, there was life. The wolf had whelped before dying. And beneath her lay five tiny balls of grey fur, five pups with their eyes still closed. Close by lay another pup, the sixth pup white as snow with its red eyes wide open..._


	13. Every Dog Has His Day 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to end the story, but reader and commenter Inwen, who graciously said this was story was a personal favorite, asked for more snippets. So here it goes...
> 
> The story "Every Dog Has His Day" is a short retelling and then a continuation of "The Northman's Daughter" from Sandor's POV. His POV was absent during the latter half of the story. Here's what he was thinking...

**Sandor**

_You will go and you will take her. She owes her allegiance to no one now,_ Sandor told himself as he looked at his reflection in the mirror. He dressed and groomed himself in preparation for his supper with the lady of Winterfell. He had received a gracious note from Sansa that late morning requesting his attendance in her rooms. He had been apprehensive that she had forgotten or worse, not cared; it was his name day today, he was thirty-three. _I'm near the age of Eddard Stark when Ser Ilyn cut his off his head. I'm an old man, more than a decade older than Aegon,_ he grumbled bitterly when he woke up this morning and realized the significance of this day. But then the note arrived, delivered by one of her personal maids and his bitterness went up in smoke. He would see her tonight, alone, for all of Winterfell's nobility, save her, had departed for the Wall. It was the best name day gift he could have gotten. He was uncertain of how she would receive him, unsurprisingly, she had been distant since they last parted. But the demise of her prospects with Aegon increased the distance between them, rather than lessened it, to his profound disturbance.

Shireen had seen Sansa privately and hold him that Sansa thought herself to be ill and Maester Samwell and the rest of her family indulged her fancies. _Sansa's not ill, she's ailing_ , Shireen muttered to him, she was a queen-in-waiting, and eager to demonstrate her sagacity to those who would be her subjects. There were many tongues wagging about the nature of Sansa's convalescence, most people pinned it down to despair at being forsaken by Aegon. _I will not believe that_ , he said to himself with vehemence. Sansa belonged to him more than to anyone else, more than to her siblings and certainly more than to that buggering inbred Aegon.

Sansa was fifteen years Sandor's junior in everything, everything except wit and wisdom, he discovered to his chagrin. Gone was the pretty stupid bird that he knew and condescended to in King's Landing. Back then she had been a little girl with all the appeal of a woman. Pretty and honey sweet, she fought so hard to maintain her courtesies and her composure around him. This only aroused him more, aroused his black desire to smash her composure, to smash her idealism, to make her see life as it is, and not as it should be. He had never wanted harm to come to her physically, and he would have rather had his own hand cut off than be forced to use it to strike her. But while he never hit her with his hand, back then he did take a perverse pleasure from striking her with his barbed tongue. For it had not been advantageous in his career as the Hound to subdue the darker aspects of his personality, of which included a ferocious and withering wit.

A cruel twist then, that it should be he who had been defeated by her, she had not overwhelmed him with strength, but with weakness. That _night_ , her sweet, impossible bravery, the bravery of a small defenseless animal facing peril, the lamb driving off the wolf. The years had changed them both, though him less than her to his reckoning. He was still a butcher, but she was no man's meat now. She had developed so rapidly that he had been forced to reassess her. She had undergone some strange alchemy before his very eyes and was reborn of a harder metal.

Another lesson about her nature he had been schooled in ... her heart was governed by her head. She had a mastery over her feelings that he wished he possessed, she could turn them about and face them in the direction she wanted them to be as if they were wooden toy soldiers she gave orders to like some great general. Oh how he wish he knew her secret to doing that fucking trick. He felt nothing but ashen desolation at the prospect of the end of their affair, he was empty and filled with a contempt for himself that sometimes bled into a contempt for her.

Well tonight would be a new beginning for them. This night he would think of his Sansa as a castle. But unlike Winterfell, Sansa's castle walls were thin. _Her defenses are weak and not built to stand the siege of a determined man. Oh she'll raise her portcullis for you if you attack hard but that is not enough. You must burn every defense, you must raze her to the ground and leave her in smoking ashes._ A slow smile crept over Sandor's mouth, he turned away from the mirror but not before seeing that the expression he wore made him look a good deal younger than his years.

* * *

Aegon VI Targaryen was the crowning injury to Sandor's wounds. A maiden's fantasy, a true knight, a King, brought to life and come to Winterfell to claim his rightful bride. And even worse, Sandor saw the moment that Aegon set eyes on Sansa that she meant something dear to him. Sansa was precious in Sandor's eyes, but she was also precious in the eyes of many other men. All visitors who came to Winterfell were struck by the freshness of her beauty, Aegon was no different. He may be a King, but Sansa was a goddess, the very embodiment of the Valryian Queen of Love and Beauty, oft depicted as an auburn-haired eighteen year old maiden born from a sea shell. Sandor had brushed off the attentions Sansa received before with a mixture of annoyance but also pride, no man wants his lady to be the woman that other men don't desire. But conversely, every man wants his lady to be the woman other men don't get, and there was his hurt, there was his torment. He kept a special box inside his head full of his memories of her. A favorite one was of a certain moment in time when she laid beneath him in bed. It was one of their earliest experiences together, so intensely sweet because her body had just begun to get use to his possession, allowing him to move inside her with more vigor than he allowed himself before. Her deep blue eyes stared into his face, her arms entwined around his neck, her mouth slightly open in her passion, revealing the soft pink lining of her inner lip, like the inside of a sea shell. Her long auburn hair spread out on the white pillow, strands of it gleaming like copper in the firelight. Her skin milky white and _clean_ , so clean, like the fresh scent of a sea breeze at sunset. He remembered breathing deeply of her, to get that cleanliness she possessed into his lungs, into his heart. She laid beneath him, blooming like a rich tapestry, the bride of the earth and the sky and the sea, her hair and her face like the sun setting into an ocean of blue milk. That Aegon or any other man should see her bloom like that, should feel the abundant wetness that she had given to him, was the seed of his destruction and his despair.

Gregor was dead and his only remaining passion in life was her, she filled every corner of his being, brought all his senses alive with the agony and the ecstasy of it. He would have done anything to keep her, to know that she loved him, and had no desire for any other man in her heart. He had come to accept that he would have to share her physically with Aegon, though the very thought filled him with murderous rage, it was better than the alternative which was to do without entirely. That was a worse torment. His torment was like the excruciating pain in his leg that was the legacy of his fight with the Tickler and Polliver in that Inn near Saltpans. The pain was unbearable for those first few months, he had almost died from it, the Elder Brother had given him milk of the poppy, but it was of no great help. He would lay awake all night with his leg throbbing in agony, thinking about his leg and about lying awake. Every solider knows that part of pain was pain's shadow, a man doesn't merely suffer, but he had keep on thinking about the fact that he suffers. That's what her absence was like, he had to live each endless day without her, but also reflect on living the next endless day without her. Before Aegon had even arrived, he had proposed to take the white, to enter into her service as a man of the Kingsguard. But she had said _no_ , piously bleating on about honor and her parents and how worse of a torment it would be for him, as if she had even the faintest idea of how he felt. Her misery was nothing, a mere scratch compared to his, she insulted him, wounded him mortally. He had always been a man of strong temper, the Elder Brother had given him tools to subdue it, but to control it would be the work of a lifetime. She had refused him, and in that moment he felt the struggle return. He would never beat her, but that buggering cat had saved her from a tongue lashing that would have made her tremble, that would have made her quiver as if whipped, already she drew back like a cowering child at the sight of his twitching face. He heard her piteous tears just before he closed the door to her room. He left her with the thunder in his ears, he went into the stables and saddled Stranger. He rode out into the woods with an axe and chopped firewood for hours, his corroding hysteria and hatred fueling the raging inferno inside him. He thought of her crying over him, her tears streaming down her face like rain. He was glad, glad that she would weep, it was right that she should mourn, she had killed their love and buried it in the ground. He wanted to weep too, but no tears would come to him. He had forgotten to bring wine. He was a weepy drunk, but sober, he was a stone-cold stoic. Instead all his tears were internal, like blood.

There was a moment of alleviation when Daenerys demanded the bones of Jon Snow. The Starks were proud, they saw themselves as equals to the dragons, Daenerys would find no bending and scrapping of the knee in Winterfell as she had in King's Landing. The people of North would say the Starks were not the dragons equal, they were their superiors. _Inbred, her parents were siblin_ _gs, the Old Gods curse incest_ , Winterfell's smallfolk muttered about Daenerys, _blood of the dragon... blood of Aegon the Unworthy, Maegor the Cruel and Baelor the Befuddle_ _d,_ they said under their breath. For days the mood around the castle was tense, he often met with King Brandon and Lord Davos to discuss how to command the men-at-arms should they find three hundred enemies in their midst. Sansa had come in during one of their discussions to let her brother and his Hand know that the situation with Daenerys had been diffused. She sighed wearily while speaking to her brother about Daenerys. The Dragon Queen was a handful, Sansa was leery of her. _She plays the supplicant with me in her chambers, but outside of it she is the sovereign_ , he heard her tell King Brandon. He had to choke on his laughter. There was no more apt description of their relationship than that pithy statement. There were two Sansas he had to manage and both tested him.

There was the persona of the Little Bird, who had welcomed him into her bed with the shyness of a friendly animal, eager to be tamed. He was delighted with this creature, she was all his, all for his satisfaction, carnal and otherwise. Their first nights together were the happiest of his life, her pretty face illuminated by the fire, her fresh young body opening up to him like a night blooming flower, at desperate pains to please him in all the ways a woman can please a man. And even better than the act of fucking her, was the feeling he got after he fucked her. Warm and at ease and vulnerable. She would rest her head on his shoulder, one of her hands cupping his testicles gently. He held her close, nuzzling her brow, while sleep and lethargy took hold of him, spreading itself over him like a warm down blanket on a cold night. He loved hearing her talk as they lay in bed together, he asked her the most mundane questions, what did the steward say about the count of sheep, how much corn will they plant this year, the art of candle-making that was in any lady of the manor's repertoire, on and on, so that he could hear her speak in her soft, lilting voice. She never understood the power of this feeling, she thought she controlled him with sex, that this was her allure. He was angry and bitter when she told him he had to leave her bed, her sister Arya would return shortly from where-ever she had gone to and would take the place that he staked out for himself.

The other persona of Sansa was the Lady, who he must respect as he would his liege lord. This one would question him about the garrisons and the castle's defenses and the measure and might of each of the men-at-arms at Winterfell. It threw him off-kilter when the two Sansas bled into each other. The Lady could always call herself into being at will, and it was unsettling to see her peek out from the sensuous drugged dark eyes of the Little Bird while they lay in bed together.

Still more odd was it when the Little Bird appeared in broad daylight, in the most commonplace and routine circumstances. He remembered one such occurrence before Aegon had arrived but after Arya returned. He had been practicing swords with a man who served King Stannis, an arrogant southron lord transplanted to the North, but a fierce fighter, a champion of several melees, who wanted to test his mettle with Hound. Their swords sang in the yard and a large audience assembled to watch the fight, it was the best one they had seen all year. They fought for over half an hour, his opponent was a worthy foe. Hard and fast the cuts came, from high and low, from left and right, but Sandor blocked them, and then he advanced, swinging his sword down harder and harder, wearing the smaller man down until he cried for mercy. Sandor loved a good long fight and the joy of his victory burst forth in a long rasping laugh that echoed across Winterfell. He saw Sansa standing in the balcony watching him, poised like a happy young dog, he wanted to catch her attention but she left quickly without meeting his eyes.

Shortly afterward, he received a summons into her solar. He walked into it before he had a chance to clean up, he stank of sweat, his ribs bruised and sore, and his lip was bloody and broken from where his opponent had viciously elbowed him. Sansa spoke to him of everyday matters, he answered her brusquely, eager to be done with his duties and sink into a hot bath. He made a move to leave before she dismissed him. "Wait," she wailed. "Your fight ... you were splendid, so fierce, so strong yet faster than a man of your size has a right to be... Is there a man in the Seven Kingdoms that can stand against you?" she said, breathlessly.

She stood up from her seat and approached him, she put her hand against his beating heart, "where does a man's energies go after battle? All that vigor must find an outlet." He laughed at her, her eyes were wide and feverish, she was in grips of bloodlust, her very body sang with it. But bloodlust was a black desire he had long mastered as a youth until he was seldom troubled by its bite. He was a man, not a beast, and disgraces with women were not amongst his many sins. She moved to kneel before him, but he grabbed her throat as she knelt down. "Go and bend over your desk," he order her, his hands pressing into her throat, he knew something of darker currents of desire that flowed through her. She did as she was told and he came in from behind her, lifting up her skirts and ripping her silk smallclothes to gain access. His hands moved between her legs, he would bend down and lick her there to ease his passage, but his knuckles brushed against a sopping wetness that took him by surprise. "What have been _doing_ in here while you were waiting for me to answer your summons? Diddling yourself, Little Bird?" he asked her mockingly.

She did not respond to his query, replying instead,"Do it to me. Put it in. Just putting it in makes me want to -". He didn't hear the end of her sentence, but he did hear her finish with a moan when he shoved himself inside her with a hard thrust. She did not lie, her cunt clenched at him, tight and delicious, faint throbs in her that ran through him like little kisses. He fucked her hard, one hand pressing against her neck, forcing her cheek against the the wood of her desk. He used her without indulgence, as if she were a camp follower, as if she were his slut. He had never taken her in that position before, it was distasteful to him. It was the same position he had taken his whores, each of them reduced to nothing but cock and cunt, no faces, no eyes to look upon, lest he would find something in them he didn't want to see, disgust or fear or simply poverty-stricken desperation. He slowed his pace, watching himself enter Sansa and then withdraw and then enter her again, so profoundly aroused by the sight that he forced himself to breath in deep long breaths to calm down. He took his hand off her neck and brushed the pad of his thumb along her folds, as delicate and lovely and as pink as the inside of a sea-shell. He was suffused by its beauty, and by the beauty of the act of raw sex itself which had revealed elusive depths he had not known before. What he had long despised was no longer despicable and he climaxed in a warm rush of pleasure, waves that emanated from his groin and moved swiftly up and down his body, to his face and to his very toes. He pulled out and then pushed back in, watching his seed fill her, wishing that something might result from it. He had spent years coping with his throttled desire for her. In his darkest moments after he left the Lannisters and King's Landing, he would find succor only in wine and his forbidden fantasies about her. His favorite was that he was her man, he was returning from a long journey and at the end of the journey was her and a bed and a fire and a child in the cot.

After he was done, she got up, brushing her clothes and straightening her hair, her cheek flushed with a warm glow from where it had pressed against her desk. He left her, unsure of which of the two not-quite-distinct Sansas he was leaving. The Little Bird whispered to him, _I'm yours for the taking, you own me_ , while Lady whispered, _You will never possess me, I am your mistress and I am your master._


	14. Every Dog Has His Day 2

_I was a fool to think a man can serve two masters,_ the Elder Brother had said to him after Sandor informed he was leaving. _Go! Though I warn you that will find no peace there, you love-struck ass,_ the Elder Brother added, shaking his head helplessly.

Sandor had been with him and and some other novices at an Inn in the Vale when Sansa discovered him. She was in the stables, her eyes fixed intently on Stranger when he chance encountered her. She turned away from the horse to face him, he saw her, and had to blink twice, not believing his eyes. His entire face, save his eyes, was covered in a cowl, but they both knew that she recognized him immediately. She stared at him with that look that was uniquely hers. The look that had captivated him after the Hand's Tourney all those years ago, the look of absolute sweetness and absolute gravity. She skimmed him up and down with her eyes, and his body caught, _ice and fire._

Her mouth opened as if she would speak, but no words came out. He approached her but did not get far, from behind him, a man near tall as him, entered the stables in an alarmed rush. The man jerked her away quickly by her hand. He saw them enter the Inn, but he made no sudden move to follow. Instead, he sat down on a bench in the stables, until he could master himself. A light-headed sickness overcame him. It was almost too fantastical to believe it was her, that she was here, breathing the same air as him. He had never expected to see her again. He hardly knew how to fathom it.

When he entered the Inn, she was in the common dining room, eating with her man. He sat down in front of the door of the inn, it was one of the busiest places to sit, as guests and his fellow brothers passed in and out of the door. Concealed among the throng, he allowed himself to stare at her. He stared at her hands, he could not stare at her body, its effects on him was too violent, and to stare at her face... it was bright, so bright, he could no more bear to look at it for long, anymore than he could have looked straight into the sun for long. He saw her hands move to push herself up from the table, she leaned to whisper something to her companion, not a man, but a huge woman as ugly as a man, he perceived at last. He watched Sansa walk way from the common room and moved towards the stairwell that lead up to the guestrooms. Before she climbed the first step, she turned around and looked right at him with a cool authority, as if she expected his service, his obedience. For a wild moment, he had thought she knew all that there was to know about him since they had last parted. It was as if his every movement over the past three years had been wide open to her, she had seen everything, the fight with Lord Beric, his capture of her sister Arya, his death on the banks of the Trident, his rebirth in the Quiet Isle. Those eyes of hers, they pierced his soul. Oh Others take him! He had been barely able to contain his baffled agony.

_I return to Winterfell as its Lady. Come into my service, if that is what you desire. If you swear your sword to me, I will honor and value you better than the Lannisters ever did. Remember your promise to me ... you swore you could keep me safe, that no one would hurt me again, or you'd kill them._

And so he had submitted, he knelt before her to swear fealty, a man dazed. He vowed himself to her with a fervent sincerity like to no other person or cause that came before. He had not vowed himself to knighthood and he had not vowed himself to the Faith, but he vowed himself to her. The Elder Brother knew his faith was weak, he never lost his doubts that it was all a delusion, perhaps a necessary delusion for most. He was grateful for the Elder Brother, the man had saved him, had healed more than just wounds of the flesh. They were very similar men in some ways, but very dissimilar in other ways, vital ways. He had no calling for holy orders, of that he was certain. He felt no need to preach the Faith, he heard no inner voice telling him to repent lest he burn. He tried on the hair shirt and the inlaid silver armor of the Warrior's Sons and said to himself that it was all bullshit, and uncomfortable bullshit at that.

It was not Faith that transformed the ruin and wreckage of his life into something tolerable. He contrasted the blood and the boredom and the solitary days of his years with his memories of her, as darkness was contrasted with the sun. His man's hunger for her burned greater than ever, to the point of despair at times, inflamed unwittingly by confession. He dreamed of possessing her in his bed and possessing her on the cold ground, he saw her besides the Mother in the sept, praying for him. _Gentle the rage inside him_ , he imagined her whispering as she knelt before the alter, her blue eyes and her auburn hair and her face too lovely for any woman of this world.

They traveled along the Kingsroad to Winterfell, Sansa and him and the Maid of Tarth. Brienne kept to herself mostly, a silent, sad and troubled woman, beset by ghosts of which Sandor did not care to pry too deeply. He understood something of guilt and loss, there was a thorn in the lion's paw, he suspected the thorn was called Jaime Lannister. The Maid of Tarth wielded the Lannister longsword, Oathkeeper, that had been forged from one half of the Stark greatsword Ice.

The warrior maid was as prudish and as prim as any septa, she looked at him with suspicious speculation. He wondered if his man's hunger was so obvious to Sansa's chaperon, his greed to both protect and possess Sansa clearly written on his face for all to read. What would Brienne say if she had known his heart? He was not a monster, he was an ordinary man. The Faith said ordinary men must marry instead of burning in fornication, they must take a wife and father sons and daughters. Without a doubt he wanted to fuck Sansa badly, so badly he would on rare occasions leave them to ease himself in the woods. He would press his head against the bark of a tree, feeling both better and worse after the madness past. But that was not what he craved the most. What he wanted was an impossible and beguiling fantasy: Sansa sleeping close next to him, the slow and familiar awakening, soft words, gentle touches, easy smiles, trust and union.

If Sansa had an inkling of his thoughts, she did not seem perturbed by them. She had told him of her whereabouts since they had last parted, her years in hiding as Littlefinger's bastard daughter in the Vale. She told him of Littlefinger's death and Lord Arryn's suit, her role in the former, her rejection of the latter. She said her overwhelming desire was to return to Winterfell, to go home, a hunted fox escaping to the earth. She spoke of her desire for freedom, for the cold empty woods she remembered from her northern childhood, she would live there in Winterfell, belonging to no one but herself. The course she would have to take to attain her ends was uncertain to her. She flocked to the banner of King Stannis who held Winterfell at the time, knowing that he required a Stark to maintain the allegiance of the North. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell, the entire North believed in this with a fervency that bordered on faith. _I live moment to moment Sandor. I must watch for every opportunity, twisting and turning as I see my chances_ , she told him, _but I am at peace knowing you are here besides me, that you have sworn your allegiance to my cause. You will protect me and act for me._

The transition from the rich comforts of her former life in the Vale to the cold, uncomfortable, perilous journey to Winterfell would have distressed any woman, highborn or lowborn, but not her. She _was_ at peace, in a strange subdued state, her indifferent attitude to time or circumstances astonishing him. There were only two instances that disturbed her tranquility.

The first was when he went bathing in a river one cold early morning. He bathed alone being a man, while Brienne and Sansa bathed together. The water was cold but fresh and revitalizing, it felt so good to be clean. He was a strong swimmer and dove underneath, swimming beneath the waves for more than a few minutes. When he resurfaced a few yards away, he saw Sansa there in the water, in the place where he had first dove. She was fully clothed with the freezing water reaching up to her waist, her feet slipping on the rocks. _I'm here_ he yelled to her. She whirled around, he could tell she had been terrified, her lip trembled as if she was on the verge of tears, _I thought you hit your head, or became ensnared by some roots... What would I do if you had died?_ she wailed at him before running away. He was stunned that in her terror of losing him she would plunge in the river, without qualms, to save him.

The second was when they were beset by a group of broken men. The men were as rabid as wild dogs, but Brienne and he had made quick work of them. Brienne had taken a wound, Sansa did an admirable job of stitching her up, the lines neat and clean. Her pain was sharp though, and Brienne had taken a long pull on a wineskin and fell into a deep sleep. Sansa and he stayed awake, alone for once without Brienne's suspicious eyes watching over them. Sitting besides each other in the dark with the fire fading, he felt an erotic intimacy with her that was as intoxicating as any wine. The deep timbre of desire lodged in his flesh, he felt the fire was beneath his skin.

He started cleaning the sword, Oathkeeper. Brienne, had returned the sword to Sansa, Ned Stark's steel belonged to Ned Stark's daughter. Sansa requested that amongst her sworn swords, that it should be Sandor who wielded it. Whether the warrior maid had given it to him with her free heart or had been cajoled into it by Sansa, he did not know. But he was grateful regardless, it was a sword beyond value, he was no more deserving of possessing it than he was deserving of possessing the lady to who it belonged.

He asked Sansa to break their silence with a song. Sansa sang a song, a ballad he never heard before called _The Blue Rose of Winterfell._ The song told the tale of great wildling warrior who had been insulted by the Lord of Winterfell many hundreds of years ago. Vowing revenge, the wildling man infiltrated Winterfell as a bard and his talent as a singer so impressed the Lord that he granted the man a boon. The wildling man asked for the most beautiful flower blooming in Winterfell's garden. The Lord agreed to offer him a blue winter rose the next morning. But the next morning came and the wildling man was gone, along with the Lord's virgin daughter. The Lord's men looked but could not find a trace of her other than the rose the thief had left on her pillow.

Sansa's song died and the silence reigned again over them. He thought mad thoughts, that she had sung her song to seduce and torture him. His will burned him, he wanted to ravish her, to steal her away like a wildling man. They were in the wilderness already, he thought darkly. He was possessed by a demon, he brought the sword up and laid it against her neck, just under her ear. He had done this once before, in King's Landing after the bread riots when she thanked him for saving her from being raped. He had saved her from the fate of Lollys Stokeworth, fucked and impregnated by over fifty men. He was proud of the savagery of his response and he longed for her to acknowledge it. He bragged to her about being outnumbered thirty to one, so his feat would not be diminished in her eyes. He remembered pressing the blade into her skin, not enough to break it, but enough so she could feel the sharpness of the steel. She had remained curiously calm then, and she was implacable now.

 _I saved you_ , he heard himself rasp, _you should thank me, offer me a reward._

 _I gave you a song_ , she replied, _I sang it for you gladly._

_I want more than a song. Kiss my sword, taste the blood of the men I've killed for you on it. Go on, girl, kiss it._

He had often fantasized about receiving that service from her, a whore's service, that no lady would perform. She had the kind of mouth only highborn girls had, girls who never lacked for good food or good hygiene. She would smile at him, open-mouthed, and he was at once bewitched and slain by the warm, moist cave of that mouth, lined with gleaming, straight white teeth, her tenderly coiled yet innocent pink tongue full of the promise of blissful hopes he held only in his own mind.

She had kissed his sword with a blank look, as unaware of his meaning this time as she had been in King's Landing when he demanded a song from her. For a moment the face of who she was and who she had been in King's Landing merged. She was a maiden of fifteen and she was a little girl of twelve, both were small and delicate. With his fingers he could tear off the bark from a tree .. and with his fingers he wanted to hold her face in his hands, he would be as gentle as if he held the life of a small bird in his palms. He took the sword away from her neck and turned his face away from her so that she could not see his hangdog shame. He wanted to hold her, to gather her up in his arms and cradle her and at the same time he wanted to overpower her, there was such violence in him, the twin exclusive emotions tore him apart. What the fuck was wrong with him?

* * *

What the fuck was wrong with him? _One more song, I beg you_ , Sandor said to her that evening when she sang to the crowd. There was a long silence when she finished singing _Two Hearts That Beat As One_ , many minutes passed before anyone spoke. Sandor could tell that her sensitive, delicate rendition of this ballad had changed the atmosphere. All that heard it were much affected, even Arya seemed strangely altered. But none were more moved than Aegon, who stared at Sansa enraptured. _That is my favorit_ _e, I cannot hear it often enough_ , the King had said, making Sandor feel absurdly possessive of Sansa's talent for music.

Sansa shook her head at him, at his request for one more song, clearly aware of his deeper meaning. Sandor stood too close to her, glaring menacingly at Aegon. He felt sure all around him must know what he was thinking. With his fingers he could tear off the bark from a tree and with his hands he could crush Aegon, the blood beat in his ears, he felt a strength more than human. Another ballad was playing in his head, not a song she had sung that night with Aegon in attendance, lest it give Sandor any inspiration. It was a song she had sung to him years ago, it was the ballad called _The_ _Blue Rose of Winterfell._ That song was what Sandor wanted to hear and that song was what he wanted to do, he wanted to steal Sansa away and to force his will on her like a savage.

Sandor left the Great Hall of Winterfell immediately afterward. Seeing another man in the full enjoyment of her was like the torture of damnation, like being dipped in wildfire and cooked. He walked out into the cloudy night, his composure crumbling away. He fought to overcome his jealousy and pain, as if he was fighting to overcome a fainting fit. The effort overpowered him momentarily and he slumped into the closest stairwell he could find. He sat there for a long moment, trying to master himself, but failing. His only relief was the thought of returning to his room, and getting blindingly drunk. He wanted to drink until he was dead to the world.

He heard the sound of quick small footsteps approach him and turned to see Grenn's adopted daughter, the child of his wife. She was a girl of six who was fond of him as if he were her uncle.

"Why are you hiding, Sandor?" the little girl demanded.

"I'm not hiding, Alla" he replied.

"You lie. I saw you leave. But I found you!" She sat down next to him, wiggling room for herself on the stairwell.

Alla clapped her hands at him as if struck by a brilliant idea. "Let's play a game. Let's play micatio. Maybe you'll win this time!"

Micatio was a game he taught Alla. In micatio, two or more players throw out a single hand, each hand showing zero to five fingers, while calling out their guess as to the sum of all fingers of every player. A point is awarded if one player correctly guesses the correct sum of all hands. The game ended when the first player reaches a predetermined point total. Grenn had told him Alla was poor at sums, Sandor taught her the game hoping to sharpen her mind, as one sharpens a dull blade with a whetstone. He played the simplest version, only two fingers at most were allowed and the winner was the first person to reach a score of three. Often times he would help her win, by calling out zero while he showed one finger, making it impossible for him to score the point. Arya had seen him play the five finger version with Rickon and Shireen, three of them together. She had join them, making it a quartet. They played for half and hour yelling at each other exuberantly. Afterward, Arya had told him this game was popular in Braavos. The bravos of that city would play it standing sideways, using their whole body and extending their arms to flash their fingers as if they were blades. It was considered to be a more peaceful, stylized fight than water dancing because there were no weapons.

"It's a Braavosi figure of speech to describe an honest man as one you can play micatio with in the dark. Where did you learn this game from Sandor? Its not well-known in Westeros."

 _"_ My father taught it me, I don't know where he picked it up," he replied, but left it at that, he hated talking about his family, especially to the Starks. Sandor resented Sansa's family, her love for them, he wanted to be her entire world as she was his. There was an idiom the Dothraki men and women who followed Daenerys to Winterfell used to speak of their loved ones. For a woman, the loved one, her man was called her sun-and-stars. For a man, the loved one, his woman was called moon-of-my-life. It was rather poetic, he did not expect savage rapers like the Dothraki to possess tenderness in their language or in their thoughts. It was also amusing to him, he lived in an upside down world, in his case it was Sansa who was his sun-and-stars, while he was merely the moon-of-her-life.

The Starks were a close-knit family, but also insular. _The strength of the pack is the wolf, and the strength of the wolf is the pack,_ he heard Arya say on occasion to Sansa, all the while looking at him distrustfully. Implicit in that that statement was that Sandor was not a wolf, he was dog, a lesser animal. Rickon was very fond of him, perhaps even loved him as a father figure. But Arya and Bran held no such esteem. Arya was at times friendly, at times aggressive and hostile, she was unpredictable in her treatment of him. Bran always showed a lord's courtesy to all his retainers, but he was cold and distant to Sandor. He made enough allusions that Sandor was well informed of how unfavorably he viewed Sandor's unacknowledged suit for Sansa's hand. _One can like a man in a way, but not enough to wish him to become one of the family,_ Bran had said to him. Another time with a hint of hostility, _A lord must be cautious when a stranger marries a woman of his blood, under his protection. At once the stranger's views and opinions become more important. The stranger takes precedence and all the bonds and loyalties of childhood are deemed of inferior rank._ Bran's cloaked speech had revealed a truth Sandor had not known before: Sandor resented her family, and they resented him. Each side fought for Sansa's allegiance, like dogs fighting over a bone.

"Once, twice, thrice, shoot!" Alla gave the commands, and on "shoot" he held out one finger and she held out one finger. He had yelled "One" and she yelled out "Two."

She squealed in delight, "A point for me!" He smiled at her, she was still too young to realize she always played one finger at the start of every game, he gave her the point or he took it depending on his moods.

Alla and Sandor played five rounds, the girl laughing gleefully after she won her third point. She laid her head on Sandor's shoulder afterward, exhausted by her victory.

"Sansa sang very pretty, did she not? When I grow up, I'm going to be just like her. A great lady, I will eat lemoncakes everyday and picnic with Queens. I shall marry Gawen."

"Isn't he the kennelmaster's son?" Sandor said.

"He will be the king by then," replied the little girl.

"Humph. A man of ambition."

"A man of what?" Alla asked confused by the difficult word.

She looked up at him. "Oh, you're sad Sandor...why are you sad?"

Sandor shook his head helplessly at her.

He could hear the musicians inside the Great Hall start up another song, a weepy mournful dirge about the War of the Ninepenny Kings, of a lover abandoned, left behind to grief and worry. The melody of the song floated outside the Hall, into the courtyard where he sat. It was fit for his mood as if composed especially for him. He was the lover abandoned, leaving nowhere, going nowhere.


	15. Every Dog Has His Day 3

Sandor stood in the darkness of the alcove near her bedroom waiting for her. She had left before dawn to go fishing with Aegon and her family, but he expected that she would be back by now and would have to pass this way to enter her rooms. In past week since Aegon arrived, this alcove was a favorite spot of his, as those dark crevices in the Red Keep near her bedroom had been favorite spots of his all those years ago in King's Landing. He would see her pass by him, as unaware of his presence now as she had been then. _I'm losing her_ , he thought, panicked and heartsick. She would pass by the alcove and his hands would reach out instinctively to draw her to him, but he had stopped himself before he could hold her in his grasp.

The problem was Sansa, _the Lady_ , he dare not goad her too far. If he rose to the truly heinous heights to which he was capable... He was at war, at war with the Lady, but there was no doubt in his mind that if he provoked battle with her, he would lose. He would drive Sansa away. For good. He was afraid to risk it. But doing nothing was becoming untenable, his own impotent rage driving him mad.

He leaned back in the alcove, feeling the warm walls of Winterfell. Hot springs ran through these walls, heating the castle, _like blood through a man's body,_ she had told him once. The blood ran through him as well, _bloodlust_. He could hardly bare to watch her and Aegon together. He would stand at a distance, quietly looking at them while pretending not to look. He wore the mask of a civilized man, while inwardly the demon raged and howled, craving destruction.

_One more song, I beg you._ He said those words to her last night and she shaken her head no. _I'll have a song from you, whether you will it or no,_ he remembered telling her that time he caught her in the Red Keep. She had been racing headlong down the serpentine steps in the black of night. They talked while he escorted her back to her rooms, she had asked why he let men call him a dog, but not a knight. He told her he liked dogs better than knights and about this grandfather, the kennelmaster at Casterly Rock. No one had ever cared to ask him questions like that, no one had ever expended that level of intensity of awareness on him. It was intoxicating, he became increasing besotted with her. When he had first seen her, he judged her to be a pretty girl who would no doubt grow into a beautiful woman, but his attraction to her could not be explained by that cause. Cersei Lannister was beautiful, men said she shined as bright as the sun, but he was never enamored with her despite his close proximity as her sworn shield. There was something else about Winterfell's daughter, something mysterious, he struggled to explain it to himself. It was her look, the look of absolute sweetness and absolute gravity.

Joffrey had bade him to escort her back to the castle after the Hand's tourney. He relished it, the opportunity to goad her, to frighten her, she had been so stupid and naive, he had to smash her beautiful follies for her own betterment. _Look at me, look at me_ he had yelled at her, his fingers holding her jaw as hard as an iron trap. She had looked at him and then had begun to cry. He let go of her, snuffing out the torch so she couldn't see him anymore. He told her about Gregor, about how he had received his scars. He wanted her to pierce his appearance and see his soul. She said nothing for a long time after his story, they sat in silence, he thought he had frightened her beyond the power of words. But that was not case ... she was afraid, but not _of_ him, _for_ him. She laid her hand on his shoulder, she touched him of her own accord, and whispered, _He was no true knight_. He roared at her, making her stumble. He caught her arm before she could fall while growling at her _No, no, little bird, he was no true knight._

_He was no true knight,_ the northern girl had said to him, a magical incantation. She had bespelled him. If she had said some words of unholy magic, spilled a little blood, boiled a toad, stolen a lock of his hair and made a stuffed doll replica of his person, her sorcery could not have bound him with more hellish power. He had roared at her, but it was not a roar of laughter... he felt a love like pain, a pain to which a lance through his body was nothing compared to it. The Starks were said to have magic in their blood, the blood of the First Men, the direwolves themselves were evidence of their supernatural gifts. The wolf's daughter had bewitched him, changed him into her hound in human shape, bringing him to heel with panting devotion. As he lay in his bed at the Red Keep, he would go over their conversations again and again, every meeting, every touch and look. He would scheme to see how he might see her the next day. He would ease himself thinking of her, her face, her teats. Each act brought him further and further under her power. _If she has enchanted me, do I want to be released from her spell?_ he asked himself, surprised that his answer was inexplicably _No_.

The Elder Brother had called him a love-struck ass when he left the Faith. His other brothers had not been so courteous. When he left them to enter into her service, they warned him of his black future. _You're a cunt-struck ass_ , they grumbled to him. _She's a witch, a tree-worshiper, she's bound you to her with false hopes and false promises. Look to the Seven-Face God for salvation. You'll find no peace in that honeypot. Love her and despair shall be your reward._

He was cunt-struck and an ass. But there was more to it than that, more to it than fucking, though the Gods knew that he had always desired that so much that he hurt. _I'll have a song from you, whether you will it or no._ He closed his eyes briefly while he waited for her. He would give her the fucking she deserved. The tension of waiting was painful, his heart thudded slowly, but his blood felt too hot for his veins.

* * *

"I'm going to give you the fucking you deserve," he growled at her one night when he entered her bedroom. It had been one of their earlier experiences together before Arya had returned.

She looked at him gravely and said somberly, "I should tell you - that I'm ill."

"Sandor, don't look so! It's only ... every month, a few days. I'm sorry! We can do other things, things I know will please you..." she gazed helplessly at him. She approached him and started to kneel, but he stopped her before she reached her destination. She looked up at him, with surprise, "I don't mind, I don't mind," she said astonished at his rejection.

But he did mind. She was so eager to please him in the bedchamber. She could read him so easily and respond to his moods so quickly. When he wanted her wanton, she was wanton. She knew when to be serious and she knew when to jest, when to talk and when to keep quiet, when to be the little girl he could cradle in his arms, and when to be an adult as fierce and supportive as a fellow soldier. It embarrassed him how much she tried to be perfect for him. He wanted her to take, so that he could give. He wanted to be perfect for her so she would not look back and regret her time with him, to feel that her dalliance with him degraded or diminished her in some way. He was better than his reputation, but not by much, he was a shabby mongrel dog compared to Aegon. He did not want her to be ashamed of giving him things that she should have saved for her husband, for her true knight, for her King.

"We don't have to fuck or do anything like that. You needn't play the wanton with me when you don't feel like it. The best part of you isn't between your legs. Is your tummy aching? I can rub it for you or how about rubbing your back?" he didn't know much about moonblood or those other cryptic female things. He had sex before her, but she was the first girl he slept with, his first and only lover.

"Its too early to go to bed. Do you want to play cyvasse?" she asked.

He set up the cyvasse board on a table while quietly watching her dress for bed. She put on a white linen smock and wore her long thick auburn loose. _Adorable_ , he sighed inwardly, if only he could share such casual intimacies with her every night until they both grew warty and fat and bent over with great age. They played cyvasse together, but she was indifferent player and the rules of the game allowed it to go on long after his victory was almost assured. Between her moves, she would ask him questions.

"Did you ever like any other girls, Sandor? Ask some other maid to sing for you or kiss your sword?" she teased.

He shrugged shyly, embarrassed by reminders of his past behavior. She had been a little girl, while he had been a man. He thought back to the time when she sang the _Blue Rose of Winterfell_ for him in the wilderness. He knew now that she wanted kisses from him then, she had been ready for a boy-girl attachment, a boy's kisses, gentle and sincere, and some caresses through their clothes. She had offered him kisses and he had asked for cunt, had asked for her to put her mouth on his cock. It was no wonder she waited so long to seduce him, he had frightened her, made her overly cautious about the kind of lover he would be, when in his heart he was as shy and as inexpert as she was. She was the victim of being a little girl in a woman's body, hounded by a group of older, lecherous men. She had told him about her wedding night with Tyrion recently, how that gargoyle had said to her _A child, but I want you. Does that frighten you, Sansa?_ Sandor had become enraged at the Imp when he heard that story, he could have strangled him with his bare hands ... but Sandor knew he had behaved no better, in fact, worse. If he could go back in time and kick his own arse, he would have gladly.

"They were nobodies, not worth remembering. Since I met you, I've had no eyes and no thoughts for any others." he said.

"What about Cersei Lannister? You were her sworn sword before Joffrey's and she was very beautiful."

He grunted, "Humph. I never nursed a semi for Cersei Lannister, let alone a tenderness," Sansa giggled at his crudeness, he felt her bare feet caress him underneath the table, rubbing his groin, giving him a semi-erection. He stilled her foot with his hands, "Stop that! You're cheating, trying to distract me." But he did not push her foot off, merely stilled its movements so that it would not incite him. She grinned at him. He had given a truth, but a truth she found most palatable. "I shit better people than that vile cunt and her cowardly spawn Joffrey," he added for good measure, to further ingratiate himself in her good graces.

"Joffrey was a little shit," she said, vehemently. Sandor raised his eyebrow at her, it was the first time he heard her curse. "He was the spawn of a monster, yet a greater monster than even her, he absorbed all of Cersei's malice and none of her courage... I wonder, are monsters born or are they made?"

"Was Gregor ..." her voice trailed off, she was afraid of his reaction, afraid she overstepped her bounds with him.

Sandor felt a sensation as if he was falling off a cliff. He said nothing for several long moments. Sansa got up from her seat and moved towards him. She sat on his lap, with her arms flung around his neck, she kissed him all over his face, most especially on the left side, where the skin was an ugly twisted mass of scars. "I love you, I love you, I love you," she whispered after each kiss. Inside him, he felt a lightness of being, as if he a secret vine growing beneath heavy rocks or a paved road, pushing and yearning towards the sun. He knew already she loved him, but there was always a nagging doubt. His insecurity would whisper that she had the instincts of a wanton, of a slut who took her pleasures like a man would, supping at a different table before entering the feast of marriage. They were unworthy thoughts that he tried his best to trampled down.

"I was five when Gregor won his first melee. He was only a boy of ten but already as tall as a man and as strong as a bull. He came into the Great Hall of our keep after his victory, his had undressed in the stables and was almost naked. I saw blood running in thin stripes down his body, both frightening and thrilling me. In a way, I wanted to be him - a great knight in the making, walking around with poise and determination as the blood ran off my skin. He bled and acted like it didn't hurt. He saw that I was watching him, saw my fear and admiration. _Come here baby, I want to have a talk with you._ I walked over to him and he imparted to me the most important lesson of my childhood. _Baby brother you have to learn to be hard, you have to learn to take things and feel nothing, no pain, no anger. And you have to realize that if anybody wants to beat you, you have to let them. You can't fight back and you shouldn't fight back. Lie down and let them beat you, let them kick you. It's the only way to you will survive, the only way you'll be a man. Save yourself some pain baby brother and give them what they want._ Is this how I'll become a great warrior like you Gregor? I asked him, afraid even as I said it. He was smiling at me, but even as a babe I could tell behind the smile there were mean thoughts, threats of uncontrollable actions, the idea of extinguishing me just for the hell of it. _No, this is how you'll become a Clegane, how I survived father and how you'll survive me._ "

"Both my older sister and Gregor were beaten regularly, according to the servant girls who would take care of me. I remember their children would tell me they felt sorry for Gregor ... as I got older they said they felt sorry for my father ... after I was burned well there was nothing else to be said. The servants told me that Gregor got the worst thrashings because he was a boy, because he was wild and disobedient and cruel, because he would cry and scream, he couldn't take it quietly like my sister. My sister got it easy, but Gregor's beatings were brutal, my father didn't want to make him better, he wanted to make him sorry. And when a man or a child gets punished like that ... the man who steals a loaf of bread and has his manhood removed for it, does that make him sorry that he stole the bread or does that make him vengeful that he was mutilated? My father only beat me once, and regretted it immediately. He was fifty when I was born, perhaps he had learned a certain belated restraint by then, or perhaps it was because I was the last son, the one he prayed to the Gods for, the one he swore not to ruin. That was the seed of Gregor's hatred for me. _One day he'll hate you too_ he would tell me as he beat the shit out of me when my father was out of sight."

"Yet there was a twisted love between them, Gregor and my father. Gregor suffered from severe headaches as he grew older, my father sent for maesters, the best ones from the Citadel, to find a cure for him but the only cure they ever discovered was milk of the poppy. When Gregor was seven he killed a man, a wandering septon who was offered shelter in our Keep for a few months. Kevan Lannister wanted to send him to the Wall, but my father rose to Gregor's defense and found evidence that the septon was a perverse creature who liked to hurt boys in unspeakable sexual ways. When Gregor was ten, he was accused of brutally raping a crofters' daughter, it shocked everyone, I don't know if he was even mature enough to produce a man's seed. But this time there was no talk of the Wall, he had proven himself in the melee, the Lannisters wanted his service, they said he was bred for their use. My father took their judgment with relief, _Why are they always picking on my boy_? he could cry whenever Gregor got into trouble with someone other than him."

"When Gregor was twelve he burned my face off for playing with one of his toys. My father told everyone with it was an accident, a fire with the bedding. _Do you know why I walk with a limp Sandor, why I could never become a knight?_ he asked me after I woke up from my shock. _It's because a horse fell on you as a child_ , I told him, repeating the story that everyone had said. He laughed bitterly at me, his laugh like the snarling of dogs in a pit. _Your grandfather extinguished my hopes and dreams for knighthood while I was no more than your age. After his accident, after he lost his leg, he became a hard, controlling man with a hundred rules that no one could obey. In his worse bouts of rage he would pull off his wooden leg and beat his wife in front of their children. I dared to intervene once to stop the beating and I found the wooden leg turned against me. My leg was so badly injured by his beating that I never was able to walk without a limp. To cover up his shame, they told the story that a horse had fallen on me. You are my son, Sandor, save for that one time, I've only touched you in love. But Gregor is also my son, my heir..._ "

_" _The knight that you could never be_...Gregor is your shame. He's no true knight. I hate you, I'll hate you forever_ , I told him. I remember what those words did to him. His whole face seem to fall into a painful fear or a sense of loss. He turned away with a weary look of sadness. Gregor was his son, his heir and his bane. He died when I was ten, a hunting accident or so Gregor claimed to others. Gregor came back from the hunt with my father's body flung across his horse. He looked at me with that frightening smile of his, _Baby brother, father was the first person I ever wanted to murder. If I could have killed him and gotten away with it I would have."_

I felt a deep rage of violence, I wanted to rip his face off, I'll kill you, I'll kill you I said as I attacked him. But he swatted me off. I was a mouse, he was the lion. _Save that anger for when you're bigger and meaner, pup, then you can make them pay, then you can kill them all_. I left for Casterly Rock the next morning, to enter into the service of the Lannisters. They took me in, I was a Clegane, a dog they could train to hunt prey and sow fear in the hearts of their enemies. The lords of Casterly Rock were kind to me after a fashion, but others, servent girls and boys, squires and knights were not so kind. Gregor's shadow hung over me, his blood convicted me of crimes I never committed. I would take the beatings that Gregor earned. I would let them beat me until they were tired, until they spat on me, and pissed on me, always remembering Gregor's advice - _save yourself some pain and give them what they want... save that anger for when you're bigger and meaner, pup, then you can make them pay, then you can kill them all_. _"_

"You ask if Gregor was born a monster or if he was made into one? It was both, as I think it was both with Joffrey. They were not good boys who got fucked over, most of it they did themselves. Most of it, but not all of it."

Neither of them said anything for a long time. They sat in silence listening to his ragged breathing.

"Do you think I would make a good father, Sansa?" he asked unsteadily. He wanted to know the truth, he trusted her to tell him, but afraid of the answer. He had suffered the world's merciless judgments his entire adult life, in the Riverlands nobody would ever forget or forgive him for being Gregor's fucking brother. No one had doubted that the Mad Dog of Saltpans was Sandor Clegane, instead of a counterfeit, Gregor's existence, his blood, condemned him beyond a shadow of a doubt. It was a relief to live in the North, where Gregor's atrocities and Sandor's alleged atrocities were not as well known, where people didn't think that being born Clegane was the mark of frightening and shameful heritage.

"Sandor," Sansa said in a low voice.

She hugged him fiercely, hiding her face in the crook of his neck. He heard her make a grieving sound. He had a sudden dread that she would shed tears over him.

"There's no guilt in the simple fact of bloodline, Sandor. _You_ are the good boy who got fucked over. You'll redeem your family's history of destruction and ruin. I see how well you handle children, especially wild ones. Rickon loves you as a father,"she said, her voice muffled by the press of her face against his neck.

Rickon was a cheerfully disobedient boy who took any mild punishment meted out with vociferous cries of alarm. He reminded Sandor of himself, before Gregor burned him. Rickon often had temper tantrums which Sandor would mollify by holding him still and telling him _I dare you not to laugh boy_. Then he would stare the boy down with his fiercest stare. Shireen would often join him as well as Sansa. They would all stare the boy down while Rickon tried his hardest to maintain his anger. It would vanish in smoke in a matter of seconds, leaving him a giggling mess.

Sandor leaned back, his movement pulled her from the crook of his neck. She looked up at him and he saw her eyes were heavy with tears.

"Sansa, don't cry, don't cry over me." His fingers held her jaw as hard as an iron trap. "I dare you not to laugh girl," he rasped while giving her his fiercest stare.

* * *

Later that night he held Sansa as she drifted off into sleep. Her back was turned to him, and he rubbed it gently, to soothe the cramps she suffered from due to her woman's ailments.

He remembered her question about the girls he liked before her. There was only one girl that haunted him, and she wasn't even real.

"Sansa, you asked me if I ever liked a girl other than you... After I left my father's keep, I would have vivid dreams of a little girl, a pretty girl with dark hair and grey eyes, of my age. She had the most captivating look, a look of absolute sweetness and absolute gravity. In my dreams we would play together and as I grew older, we would kiss and touch each other. Who are you I would ask her? _Your daughter, your mother, your student, your teacher, your supplicant, your sovereign, your friend, your lover, your fellow soldier_ , she would answer. Are we related then... is it, is it wrong to touch each other like we do? _Is it wrong to touch yourself when you lie in bed in the dark?_ she replied. My dreams of her were one of the few joys of my childhood after I left my father's keep."

"Do you dream of her still Sandor? Perhaps she is your future bride, one you have yet to meet. The Faith of the Seven says that such visions can be real. Girls all over the Seven Kingdoms light candles in the sept on Maiden's day, hoping for a vision of their future husband. Why would such visions not come to boys as well?" Sansa whispered to him, pulling his hands from her back, settling closer to him, so that she lay in his embrace, curled around his body.

"I don't think she was my future bride. She came to me when I was ten but got she more fragile with each successive visit as I grew older. I dreamed of her one night, she was beaten and bruised. Who's hurt you? I asked her. _I'm an orphan Sandor. Gregor hurt me, he killed my family, but he wasn't punished. Prince Rhaegar knighted him, anointed him with the seven oils. Arise Ser Gregor... Now I'm here in Casterly Rock. But I'm one of those children that the other boys and knights feel they can treat any way they want, because nobody will speak up for me. It's all a lie, all those stories of true knights, knights are for killing. They are the butchers and I am their meat. I'm sick now and I will never any get better. Can I stay here with you tonight? I'm scared and I need somebody to hold me._ I lay in bed with her the entire night, holding her, running my hand over her fevered brow, kissing her lightly, telling her I loved her and would protect her. _I just want to disappear,_ she said. She curled herself up into a ball in my arms as you are curled up now. _I want to disappear into nothingness. I want to disappear inside myself, where nobody can ever hurt me ever again._ She fell asleep in my dream and she never woke up, she died in my arms, I felt her cold and dead. After that night, she never visited me again. I woke up crying after that dream, my insides racked with a sharp pain. I knew that no child has actually died, but the loss felt real, it felt like I _couldn't_ live with the crushing, insatiable - ."

Sandor heard Sansa give a choked cry of grief. She bent over with a sound of pain, as if she had been stabbed. He held her tighter, rubbing her shoulders as she cried, kissing the back of her head. "Hush, hush," he whispered.

She had recognized immediately what had taken him years to figure out. He had not known the identity of the little girl until many years later. Until he chanced had a conversation with Jalabhar Xho, the exiled prince of the Summer Islands. The prince told him of a belief of his people, the Summer Islanders believed that inside every woman was a masculine spirit, and inside every man, a feminine one. Sansa knew who the little girl was, the little girl was him. She was the feminine spirit inside him, the spirit the Summer Islanders called a man's _anima_. She was the lie that his brain had conjured up so that a worse truth might be revealed to him. She had died when he was twelve, the year Gregor was knighted by Prince Rhaegar, the year Sandor killed his first man, the year he purchased the dog's head helm that he became known by. It was the year the boy died and the man called the Hound was born. He had dreamed of his last night on earth, before he became as cruel as he needed to be to survive the rest of his life.

Sansa fell into a exhausted sleep after she had cried for him. He stayed awake all night watching the flames in the fire cast shadows on the wall and the ceilings. He hadn't told her those things so she would feel sorry for him, so she would fuck him and stay with him out of pity. He told her because he was at ease with her, warm and relaxed, both utterly calm and utterly vulnerable. She was his daughter and his mother, his student and his teacher, his supplicant and his sovereign. His friend, his lover, his fellow soldier.

He was a man whose foes had been of his own household. There was no greater pleasure for him than being with Sansa. She was the comfort and dryness of home after a cold and drenching ride in the rain, she was the warmth and the peace and security of the fireside, after spending a lifetime amongst his enemies.


	16. Every Dog Has His Day 4

The morning following the night of his revelations about Gregor, he woke up Sansa by brushing his fingertips along her face as he leaned over her. She opened eyes and smiled at him with sensuous ease. She mirrored his actions, her touch gentle over the right side of his face, where he was unburned.

"I would have been a plain man, an ugly man even, without the scars," he grumbled to her.

"Yes," she had replied, she did not flatter him nor did he flatter her in return, they trusted one another to always tell the truth to each other. She had commanded him to always give her the truth when he became her sworn shield, _I depend on you for the truth. There is no one on earth that I trust except you Sandor. A dog will die for you and never lie to you._

"You would have been a plain man. But not unpleasing, not to me. You have the look of the North. You have the gaunt, sharp-edge features of my fathers' people, of the Kings of Winter. Their faces were as sharp as their iron longswords, as fierce as the wolves that crouched at their feet."

True to her word, she had taken him down to the Winterfell crypts and he saw variations of his own face amongst the stone tombs. Faces of hard men for hard times.

"Your children will more resemble the old Kings of Winter," Sansa whispered, "than the future Kings of Winter themselves, more than Rickon and Shireen's progeny."

He nodded, remembering Arya's fury at being mistaken for his daughter during their travels through the Riverlands. Arya was the only Stark that took after Eddard Stark, the only child that bore the traditional Stark-like countenance and coloring that was common amongst the First Men.

"I have the blood of the First Men", he replied, seeing the bemused surprise blossom on her face. "My grandmother, she was from the North, a tall, dignified woman according to my father. The baseborn daughter of a hedge knight and a serving wench. Her name was Nan. She was named after her mother."

"My old nurse was called Nan, she's Hodor's great-grandmother. She was very old, the oldest person in Winterfell during my childhood. She was called Old Nan while my father was still a boy. She came to winter to nurse a Bran Stark, which one, the brother of my grandfather Rickard Stark or the brother of his father, we don't know. She had sons that she lost in Robert's Rebellion, a grandson that died in the Greyjoy Rebellion and daughters that moved away from Winterfell. Perhaps one of those daughters that moved way was your grandmother. Why, Hodor could be your cousin! You are both so tall," Sansa said astonished.

Sansa lead him to the lichyard behind the First Keep where all the faithful servants of the Kings of Winter were buried. They stood before the lichen spotted grave stone of Old Nan, lovingly decorated with a fresh bouquet of winter blue roses. Sansa nodded at the gravestone, "Bran's doing. He loved her well. We all did, but he especially. Old Nan died at the Dreadfort...," Sansa's eyes were full of angry tears, a common occasion whenever she thought of the fate of some of Winterfell's smallfolk. Sandor rubbed her shoulders, at loss for words.

"Did you ever meet her when you came to Winterfell with King Robert?" she asked, her voice hopeful.

"No, I didn't...Look Sansa, Nan's a common enough name. And there are dozens of men as tall as me and Hodor in Westeros, we cannot all be blood."

He mulled over the mystery for awhile, wanting to believe it,"Still...it's a charming fancy...that I return to the place of my foremothers, as you have to your forefathers."

They stared at Old Nan's grave stone, in the silence of the lovely dewy air of the lichyard, together in a world of their own. A world where there was no inequality between them, though her forefather was a great lord and his foremother a servant that nursed that great lord.

Sansa smiled at him, "We're all little rivers returning to the ocean that is Winterfell... Why I see the resemblance between you and Hodor now when your face is in profile. Its uncanny, we'll have to scratch your cheek with a pin to tell you two apart when you turn to your right side."

Sandor gave her his fiercest stare, but it just made her giggle through her tears.

"Was not your sister also named Nan? A Nan in each generation of the Clegane family. Like Bran in each generation of the Starks," Sansa said.

He nodded. "If I have a daughter, I will call her Nan," he replied, looking at her for approval. He did not know his sister well, but she out of all this family deserved to be reborn, to have a better life free of their family's legacy.

"A variation perhaps on Nan ... Ann? Its more elegant, a fitting name for a lord's daughter."

He grunted his approval, the matter settled, the imaginary daughter named.

_What deluded fools we are,_ he thought, but did not dwell on it too deeply, the delusions they weaved together were powerfully seductive.

* * *

Later that evening, as they lay in bed together, Sandor told Sansa about another dream he had, a recurring dream that he's been dreaming in various forms since he was ten.

"In this dream, I am in a room, my bedroom in my father's keep. My face is always whole in these dreams, changing as I grow older. Sometimes I spend long moments staring at my reflection. I see the gaunt face, the sharp cheekbones, the large hooked nose, the grey eyes covered by long dark hair. Its mesmerizing to see my face as it would have been with no twisted ugly scars, just flesh roughened by no more than the sun and wind due to the hours spent outdoors."

"In these dreams, I have visitors, my family, my father and my sister, all back from the dead. They come to me, moving between my room and the outside where I cannot follow them."

"I see my sister Nan coming and going. She's the most frequent visitor, though I never knew her well in life, I had been too young when she died. She had drowned when I was five and she was fourteen. She had gone swimming with a servant girl in a nearby lake but had not come back at the appointed hour. The household was roused to go and search for her. It was Gregor who had found her by the banks of the lake along with her drowned companion. I never knew the truth of her death... was Gregor involved or was it an accident of fate, I cannot say. Gregor was capable of anything by then. Yet the night of Nan's death he tore his bedroom apart, smashing a window, then slashing his wrists."

"In these dreams my father would also visit, holding his guts to keep them from falling out. He appears in the dream as he did the day he died, gored by a boar. I am always happy to see him, but I feel guilty because I could tell Nan is not, she's afraid of him. Afraid that our father would spread his anger and ruin to the living, to me, the way he had spread it to those who were dead. When he was there with her, I'd have to convince him to go away. _Go, father, go elsewhere, go lie down and let us bury you again_ , I would tell him."

"I would watch them come and go from my bedroom. I would peak out from my bedroom window at times and I could see Nan playing outside. And just beyond my father's keep, I could see the wilderness, miles and miles of it, green as dark as night and stretching to the horizon. When Nan was tired of playing she would wander off into this wilderness. I'd call for her to come back, sometimes she would turn and wave at me but still saunter off into the forest."

"One day when I was ten, I saw Nan playing outside with a little girl, my age, pretty and sweet. _Who's the girl?_ I asked Nan when she came to visit me. Nan shook her head, as if she couldn't find the right word... _your valonqar_ , she said, shrugging to show that she did not know how to translate it truthfully. I knew a smattering of High Valryrian, I was educated as fit for a son of a minor lordling. I knew valonqar meant both little brother and little sister. _Bring my valonqar inside to play with me_ , I told Nan, _I'm lonely and I need a friend_. _The only friends I have in the waking world are dogs."_

"At that time, I often slept in the kennels to avoid any nighttime bullying. Since I slept with dogs, I smelled of them, and soon enough, others would call me "Dog" rather than use my real name. I didn't mind it though, dogs were loyal animals, dogs were the sigil of my House, dogs were better than people, better than the squires and knights I knew. It was no insult by my reckoning to be called a dog."

"Nan visited me not too long after the little girl died. _Is she gone forever?_ I asked her. Even in my dreams I was crying, crying so hard that snot would run down my from nose into my mouth. Nan took my chin in her fingers, her fingers were like an iron trap, _You must kill the boy so that the man can be born. You must become as cruel as you need to be to in order to survive..._ "

" _Never forget you're a Clegane. We're bred like fighting dogs, to hunt our lord's prey and sow fear in the hearts of men who are our lord's enemies. You're a dog, make it your strength, then it can never be your weakness. I have a gift for you, take it ... and armor yourself in it_. She handed me a helm. It was fashioned in the likeness of a snarling black hound. I loved it instantly... it was fearsome to behold. I put it on and went to a mirror to see my reflection in the glass. _The helm's a great improvement over my burned face_ , I told her."

In his dream Sandor had laughed at her after he made this observation. His sister had never seen his real face, only the dream one, the whole one. His laugh sounded bitter to his own ears, it sounded like the snarling of dogs in a pit.

"My sister got up to leave, but I stopped her, _Nan, wait, please...why must I sit in this room alone while you and father travel freely, coming and going as you please?"_

" _I and father can move to and from the nightlands. That's what the vast wilderness is. You cannot leave the confines of your room because you have not yet entered death. You cannot follow us, cannot follow us into the forest where our real lives take place until you die._ "

"Nan pulled out a dagger and placed it on my lap. The choice is yours Sandor. _"Brother, I will see you in the darkness beyond_ , she says. Then she kissed me between the eyes."

Sandor remembered her look, her eyes ... dark and soft and compassionate, unspeakably warm, unbearably beautiful. It made his next decision easy.

"I take the dagger and I slit my own throat. It doesn't even hurt. I feel the life pass from me with the gushing of my blood and in the next instant ...nothing... _nothing_. I collapse into nothingness. There is darkness but there is no beyond, no forest, no nightlands where our real lives take place. I woke from that dream freed from the lies that I was fed kneeling in the cold sept as a boy. There is no Father sitting in judgment, no Mother to hold us, to wipe away the tears. There are no gods, no hells, no heavens, no peace beyond extinction. There are no gods, any more than there are true knights. And if there are gods, they are not worthy of worship for they made sheep so wolves could eat mutton and they made the weak for the strong to play with."

_"_ Do you still feel this way Sandor?," Sansa whispered.

"I don't know, I did not find faith in the Quiet Isle Sansa. I found a measure of peace, a taste that the world is not so awful. What if this life is all we have?"

"Then we must savor the joys while we can. Valar morghulis."

She sang him a song then, a sweet song, her favorite one.

_The northman's daughter was as fair as the sun,_

_and her kisses were warmer than spring..._

* * *

_The northman's daughter was as fair as the sun and her kisses were warmer than spring_ , he thought, while waiting for Sansa in the darkness of the alcove. He tasted her, and the taste was addictive, he had a need for it, a need that was infinite. How did she think he would cope knowing that it was over?

She had given a taste of joy and happiness and then said _Enough._

_Bugger that, wolf girl, you're mine,_ he thought as he saw her approach the alcove. He came out of it and pulled her quickly into the darkness. He needed only one hand to yank her off her feet and push her up against the wall. He pushed his straining cock against her stomach, leaving her no doubt as to his intentions. He was as hard as iron, aroused enough that it hurt, so close, so close to explosion, her legs and thin layers of fabric the only things between them.

He kissed her hard, turning his face to hers, capturing her mouth. He palmed her teats, roughly kneading them, making the nipples hard and tight. She struggled against him, trying to push him away. It inflamed him even more, it felt right that she should be unwilling, that his strength should take control of her.

"I'm going to fuck you," he warned her, his breath savage and quick in her ear. Those words had some curious narcotic effect on her. She stopped her struggles, in her eyes he saw that she was possessed with a strange spirit, a tigerish limpness.

He hoisted her up, hooking his arms under her thighs, the weight of his body pinning her against the wall. He briefly freed one hand and ripped her silk smallclothes. The tip of his cock began to enter her.

"Let me in. _Now,_ " he rasped.

She was tight, as tight as she had been their first time. She was unprepared for his invasion. He grunted at the difficulty of his penetration. His moved in short, rocking thrusts of his hips, each thrust forcing his cock deeper into her. She bit his neck as he pumped, her bite was hard, as if she wanted to hurt him.

_Tiger, tiger,_ he growled in his mind.

He felt her body move to accept and adjust to him, her movements impaled her on him, seating him to the hilt. He began to drive in and out of her, his thrusts drawing out her moisture, easing his entry. He felt her cunt clasp at him, tightening and subtly caressing his cock as it pumped into her. Desperately he fought for control but the effort tore at his guts. He pumped but a few times after that, one, twice, thrice, before she climaxed, fast and strong, he felt her tremble in his restraining arms, her teeth sinking down on him with a powerful bite. He pumped with increasing force, his neck corded with the strain of his efforts. With every thrust his mind raged at her, lashing at her with his depths of his agony.

_Do you know what its fucking like to feel warmth after cold?_

_Do you know what its fucking like to eat food after hunger?_

_Do you know what its fucking like to drink after thirst?_

_Do you know what its like to feel sexual love after the absence of sexual love?_

_DO YOU? DO YOU? DO YOU?_

DO YOU FUCKING WOLF BITCH?

She was the comfort and dryness of home after a cold and drenching ride in the rain, she was the warmth and the peace and security of the fireside, after spending a lifetime amongst his enemies.

She was the Northman's daughter and she had said _Enough._

He climaxed, there was pleasure but no release. She struggled against him to force him to let go of her. She shrank from his touch as if he was unclean. He thought he had become repulsive to her. The thought made him twist his face in pain.

But he held her even tighter. _Have mercy wolf bitch,_ he growled in his head, as he thrust into her roughly once more as if he could make her tremble under his absolute dominion.

The force of his emotions overwhelmed him. He had been famished and she had fed him. Like a starving man chokes on his first crust of bread, he had choked on his own satiety. There was maelstrom inside of him, his pain and terror at her loss choking off into wordless pants. He struggled to put his thoughts, his demands, his appeals into words, but the only word that came out was a desperate howl of " _Please_."

* * *

_  
___

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: A bit of crack!pot theory here where I insinuate that Sandor is the great-grandson of Old Nan and a hedge knight, in fact "The Hedge Knight", Ser Duncan the Tall. My basis that Sandor is a descendant of Ser Duncan the Tall and Old Nan. (1) Sandor's tall and Northern looking but comes from the Westerlands where the population is from Andal stock (2) the next Dunk and Egg story is called the She-Wolves of Winterfell (3) Brienne's who finds Dunk's shield (a strong indicator that she's a descendant) in her father's armory is described by Jaime as "Hound with Teats" (4) in aDwD Bran has a vision of a brown-haired girl kissing a tall knight (I guess I'm saying this is evidence that that's Old Nan and Ser Duncan the Tall had an affair) (5) The age of Old Nan is consistent with the time frame of the Dunk and Egg stories. Its weak, but hey, not impossible...
> 
>  
> 
> **Author's Note II:  
>  Hi readers, I suspect the next chapter will the last chapter of this story "Every Dog Has His Day" (and the Northman's Daughter). I'm going to take a little break (not too long) from writing it since I sort of don't want the story to end. I've had such a great time writing it and reading all your comments. Thanks for all your kind encouragements.**
> 
>  
> 
> **To that end... is there anything you'd like to see in the last chapter? Some mystery of Sandor that is yet to resolved? Some scene in the Northman's Daughter that you want from Sandor's POV. I'll incorporate requests into the last chapter, comments are appreciated!**


	17. Every Dog Has His Day 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note from the author.
> 
> This is it, the conclusion. It's over!
> 
> I started this story on January 2012. This started out as a response to a prompt in the comment fic meme on the sansaxsandor Livejournal community and slowly morphed into a 60K word story about Sansa and Sandor at the end of the series, an epilogue after the close of "A Dream of Spring" with all the remaining wolves returning to Winterfell. I gave them their happy ending by chapter 16 in "The Northman's Daughter." But I decided to continue writing in this universe by detailing the events of "The Northman's Daughter" though Sandor's POV. That sequel is called "Every Dog Has Its Day." 1.25 years after I started, its finally done. Hope you enjoyed the last chapter where I plied on the lovey-dovey stuff rather thickly. Not that Sandor has any complaints!
> 
> Thank you for all your support and comments. I'd like to thank the patient Zoar83, zoinks, LittleMissGriff, dreforall for their generous comments. And of course to my friends on LJ, ladytp and dealbreaker19. 
> 
> This was my first fanfiction and I'm both relieved and saddened that I'm finally done with it.
> 
> Credit for the cover art goes to Emmanation.

 

 _Please_. Not that. Anything but that.  _Pity. Bloody hell. Not pity_.

Her eyes searched him over, up and down, then affixing on his face with an intensity that made his mouth twitch. She studied him in a way that made him inwardly cringe at what she must be seeing.

 _No one dies from love, you will endure,_ Sansa's words out of Shireen's mouth. He had been furious when he heard that pile of dogshit. Shireen's glance instinctually dropped from his face to his fists. Sandor knew the trajectory of that motion well, had seen over and over in the faces of whores and camp followers in King's Landing and Lannisport and all the shitholes in between.  _Get the fuck out_ , he heard himself barking, full of iron contempt. She scrambled like a spooked deer. He grabbed an empty wine jug and aimed it the closing door, immensely satisfied to hear the sound of both the door closing shut as well the shattering of the clay.

A wave of sickness washed over him. He sat down on his bed, feeling queerly fragile, breathing hard, trembling as he fought to to gain full control of his wits. A wild moan swelled the chamber, the sound of some animal pain that couldn't be roped and lead to meaning.  _Bloody hell. Seven bloody hells._   _I'm going to go out of my mind_. His mouth twisted to a sour grimace thinking of that brainsick cow, Lysa Arryn. The perpetual ache of loss and loneliness deforming her until it became a part of the faint sourness of her soul. He stared up at ceiling, pulling his eyelids wide open, a trick that prevented the water from falling out. Then anger rose, killing the despair. Shireen. He thought of Shireen.  _Ugly bitch._ He would grow to bloody loathe Shireen if he didn't hate her already, as one hates the witnesses of one's own humiliation and defeat.

The last time he had seen Sansa was when she had sneaked into his room to steal his tunic. He had been glad to give it to her, he hated it, as he hated the mirror, the bed, the tables, every item in his room that silently stood watch over that bawl-baby and fucking loser, day after day. They had robbed him of wine, making the oblivion of sleep near impossible. He had spent the last few weeks in a half-dead state, summoning some semblance of manhood during the day, while spending his nights wandering around the castle grounds trying to escape the misery that dogged him.

He had always loved walking at night no matter what castle he found himself lodged. Staggering as he walked, his eyes burning, his skin prickly with heat, full of precarious, drunken, good cheer. Winterfell was especially improved by darkness. By day it was creeping moss and grey granite stone, a smoking squatter against the blue sky. But at night it looked like a jewel, lit with lanterns whose light would shudder against the darkness. How often over the years had he found himself standing below Sansa's chambers in the Great Keep. Sometimes he could see her, a provocative, girlish shadow against the light through the curtains. He made a point to avoid the grounds of the Great Keep now. Sober, he would wander everywhere else. But the sky was drunk, hiccuping starlight, clouds swaying desultorily past the moon. They made him mistrust his vision, as every chamber in Winterfell became Sansa's bedchamber and against the chamber's curtains was the shadow of a man who would never be him.

* * *

"How long do we have together?" he rasped, staring at her with a stricken expression. Her loveliness  _hurt_. He thought of losing her. Again. Of a future where this moment, where any private intimacy, was impossible.

"All night long," she said, misunderstanding him completely. Sandor grunted then pursed his lips, not wanting to say anything that would hurt the girl. If she was thickheaded at times and her judgments not always perceptive or profound, well, she was only human. If he wanted to recapture her affections, rudeness was not the way to go about it.

Her lovely visage frowned deeply into his, then smoothed itself into blankness. He tried to smiled at her, though he felt miserable. There had been a time when Sansa would have leaped into his arms the moment he had crossed the threshold. She would pounce on him like a happy puppy, wrapping her legs around him as he held her by her arse, the impact of her body forcing him backward against the closed door. Her kisses were just as violent, ferociously grateful and eager, making him jerk his head back until it clunked against the hard oak of the door. Her kisses had improved little since their first night together. Brutal fading into fierce. Lips bruisingly pressed against his, her tongue sucking greedily at his mouth as if she could live off the air in his lungs.

Oh how he adored her just for that.

But tonight, Sansa made no movement to broach the distance between them, a lack of initiative that filled him with belly-churning worry.

They sat down to dinner. She had the cook prepare all his favorites. It was his name day today and Grenn and a few other people had wished him well. His courtesies haltered at no more than a silent nod. Since receiving her invitation, he concentrated on getting drunk on bravado. All day he had been telling himself that Sansa was a castle and he the one determined man fit to seize her. There was such an agitation locked up in himself, a feeling so intense that he could hardly speak even when he heard the common voices talking to him.

He lacked appetite and neither of them ate much, moving around their food in silence. When they finally did speak, due to  _his_  strained and fumbling attempts, they held safely to the conversational surface.

"Hmm, this honeyed chicken tastes differently today than what I've had before."

"We have a new cook in training. Pate will leave with Arya to King's Landing," she answered.

"That's a pity, he made the best pies."

Sansa nodded, agreeing, "He had a great singing voice too, he'd often sing in the kitchens. We are all going to miss him. But his loyalty is with Arya, and King's Landing was the place of his birth. He sold his mother's pies in the streets of the city as a boy. Arya means to give him a special place of honor as cook to the Younger Queen. I think Arya's a little worried of Aegon's appetite for rich Pentoshi food. Lord Davos told her there is a Pentoshi man who sits on the Small Council who fatter than the North's own late Lord Manderly, who had been so fat he could not sit on a horse."

Sansa giggled, "I remembered Arya's fury at having to sit next to the fat one as she called him, poor Tommen Baratheon, when King Robert visited Winterfell. Aegon will not be allowed to age with anything less than grace."

Sandor laughed picturing the furious Arya sitting next to an old and warty Aegon, so fat that he wheezed over his wine, his breath making bubbles on the surface.

His fingers furtively pinched his side. thinking of the time he quarreled with that rich merchant dressed in velvet. He had drawn his dagger and thrust it up to the hilt of of merchant's belly but it was so thick with protective fat that the knife point hadn't even pierced the man's bowels.

Sandor's fingers found nothing to reproach himself with, the skin over the musculature that corrugated his abdomen was taut. The thought of himself as a pot-bellied old man, bragging about the tourneys he won while palming a handy wench made him want to spit in disgust.  _Never_ , he swore. Sandor straightened, flexing his thick biceps. He had something to be proud of there and she should know it.

He caught Sansa cocking a brow and throwing him a teasing smile from behind her cup of wine.  _Poor insecure ape_ , he thought, half wanting to laugh at his miserable vanity. Unexpectedly, she leaned over and rubbed his muscular biceps. He caught her hand before she withdrew it, turning it over, palm up. It lay there like a not-quite-tame animal, ready at any moment to spring away.

His hooked nose crashed into her open palm like some blundering meteor and his burned lips planted a lumpish wet kiss on the soft skin. He pulled back and watched. Waiting. Hoping.

She half parted her pink lips, her eyes closing shut as a blush bloomed on her face, creeping down her neck, and across her shoulders until it disappeared into the low bodice of her gown.

It caused him to break out into a lopsided grin.

"There are rumors that you've kept yourself away in your rooms because you're heartbroken over Aegon choosing Arya over you. They say you weep bitter tears because your sister has lead your intended astray. If Aegon chose Arya over Sansa, then his brain is addled. But there's no accounting for the tastes of some men. They'd rather have maggoty cheese than fresh curds, or so I told Grenn."

"Arya is very beautiful, you cannot deny it," Sansa said with some heat.

"I'm speaking of the her character, not her countenance," he threw back. Fucking Arya. Wolf-bitch was the unmovable object of a great, baffling affection. That maggotty little cunt relished giving him trouble. Accosting him when she found him alone, gripping his arm while spouting a bunch of nonsense. It made him laugh when it didn't make him furious.

_Daenaerys told me that the Ghiscari raise their finest birds of prey on the flesh of dogs. Perhaps I should change Lady Vengeance's feed? Chicken being expensive while mean-tempered, ugly dogs grow fat from the scraps they are fed under the table._

_Hot Pie can't find a wife here no matter how tasty his tarts are. What's your recipe, Sandor? I think I've figured it out: eight parts cruel comments to two parts not ungentle words equals one stupid girl tipping backward for your ugly, old arse..._

He felt a moment's pity for Aegon, cunt-struck with a girl whose demeanor was either bugger you or love me.  _Some fools and their itch for wild_ ,  _misunderstood things,_  he thought with an inward shake of his head.

He leaned closer to perfect womanhood. The little bird, lovely and bright, gracious and good-intentioned. "Besides, you cannot deny you like it when I'm rude and obnoxious. Else why do you laugh so hard when I tell you the story of how I slew Lord Beric?"

He waited for her to say something. In a sweep of long, heavy lashes, she turned her eyes downwards for a moment. Her lips twisted into a little smile, secretive and not-quite-so-wholesome. Then she turned towards him and grinned, one very  _long_  and luminous look of admiration and pleasure.

"I wish I could warg into you Sandor. Or else I wish I could grow as small as a seed, a tiny mustard seed, and you would swallow me and carry me in your body, safe and warm from all harm," she said breathlessly as if she was talking about one of those damned heroes from the stories, rather than him, her old, mean-tempered Dog.

"Little Bird," he murmured, pulling her in for a deep kiss, "your protection is all of my ambition. I want no other reward." He settled deeply into his chair, instantly more contented.

He should make a move. He was going to. She wanted him to, that honey-eyed look unmistakable. She was itching for it. Yet he sat there, reluctant, folding his hands behind his neck. Once anticipation was something he wanted to outrun, now it was his favorite part.

They finished eating their meal. They talked as they use to, aimlessly, conspiratorially, laughing together and then falling into silence. A full half hour past filled with jokes made and replied to, affectionate twaddle given and received.

And then she came towards him, sitting on his lap, her arms entwining behind his neck. He touched her hair with its light and dark shadows, then buried his nose it in. She smelled, as she always did, of white flowers and citrus and powder, pristine woman-things. The candles lent her skin such a golden charm. He kissed her and hugged her, with the kisses and hugs of a boy, clean and guileless. They fell quiet. It was so good to just hold her just like this, the difficulties of existence put aside for just a moment. It was _pleasant_ , things men craved but wouldn't admit to. Like the comfort of a hot brick wrapped in linen that he would put at the end of his bed to keep his feet warm on frigid Northern nights.

His belly was full and the bedwarmer...Sansa, the sweetest consolation he had ever known, was sitting on his lap. Just ahead, in the immediate future, the open door to her bedchamber lay waiting. If he could stop time, stop life, he would stop it here.

Time flew. The breathless moment held in amber suspension for an interminable period.

And then the girl broke it with her petition. "Let me lie with you," Sansa whispered in his good ear.

 _Gods bless_ , he thought, smirking from ear to the hole where the other ear should have been.

His hands slid down, tightening on her waist. He lifted her up and carried her to the edge of her bed. They undressed each other, his fingers fumbling over the intricate, damn near impossible to decipher lacing of female garments until at last only a silk ribbon held her shift to her bare breasts. It lay sparkling like a jewel. His twitchy forefingers caught the ends of the loop and pulled the bow free as if he was unwrapping a nameday gift. The shift fell with no resistance, descending to pool at the bottom of her feet. She was naked, except for her grey hose and garters. He pulled her to him. "Lady, lay you down," he rasped in imitation of their first night together.

She yielded, so easy to control, falling onto her bed. She smiled radiantly at him, another gift, the smile like a bow across her face. She stretched out like a kitten in the sun, her back arching, her throat exposed, her hair fanning across the white sheets of the featherbed.

Excitement flooded him, the draining weight of his scrotum seemingly gathering every last drop of his blood towards his cock. He followed her, laying over her. She eyed his bobbing prick, cooing the kind of lascivious noise that she thought he wanted to hear, then licking his finger suggestively.

He held her in check, exerting a subtle pressure on her upper arms. He kissed her. Gently. Over and over. Sansa began to giggle, kicking lightly, gluttonously eager to finish what he wanted to prolong. He moved lower, to the good parts, the ones he didn't have. Her bared breasts were round, lush, flowering with its pink tips, lifting and falling with her uneven breath. "I've often wondered what color these would be … they are exactly like I've imagined. A red rose peeping through white. Strawberries drowned in cream... " His lips opened and he drew his tongue across the plump nub, first one then the other.

Sansa burst out laughing, "Oh what smooth gallantries ... But didn't Shireen instruct you to compliment a lady on her hair, her lips, her eyes?"

"How can a man get to those things if his eyes never leave these?" He cradled the underswell of her teats with both palms, pushing them up and thumbing the nipples until they were as hard as pebbles.

His left hand stayed there, covering her breast without fondling her, feeling the thump-thump of her heart. His right hand moved towards the shelter of her thighs. The curls down there touched him, sliding between his fingers, erotic and teasing. He grunted in excitement, shoving two fingers inside of her. She was hot, soft, abundantly wet and tight, almost as tight as if she was still a maid. Oh, it had been too long.

He furrowed his brow. A wave of gloominess of surprising violence came over him. What the hell was wrong with him? He was too sober.  _I'm going to lick Lady Sansa's gorgeous titties, ugly-arse me._  He should be cackling and patting himself on the back. He leered at her, but his head was achy, his tongue felt too numb to watch his words. "The only thing that would make them more beautiful is if they were full of milk."

When she spoke again, her voice was quiet, "I dreamed that I bore your children...," but her hands gripped his hair painfully, as if they were shaking with what she held back.

"A boy who resembled my brother Robb and a daughter who had your eyes..."

He pulled her hands away from his hair, and she moved to straddle him, sitting astride him as she would a horse. She looked into him. She had the most beautiful eyes. The color he thought was pretty, but it was the expression, the expression that he loved the most. Sweet and grave, warm and gentle, rarer than any unicorn or dragon could be rare.

That look wasn't there now. Her expression was ghostly, fathomless. Peering out of the windows of her eyes were the Kings of Winter, as cold and pitiless as the gods that judge the dead.

"When I lay dying under that tree by the bank of the Trident, my last thoughts were of you, how I stood there in my white cloak and let them beat you."

He shouldn't have let those things happen to her. He should have done something and instead he did shit. Dumb noises began to come out of his throat, raspy whimpers that would have shamed Rickon, let alone a grown man.

Sansa leaned down to rub his arms. He heard his voice keep babbling, muttering fiercely on and on...

"I laid there for a day before the Elder Brother found me. I lived through the agony of my pain fantasizing that you were my lady... that I was returning from a long journey and at the end of my wanderings there was you and a bed and a fire. I think that's why the Gods spared me. The Gods made me live for you, I think that they raised me from death for your personal use. If there is Seven Hells and I am to burn for my sins, I pray that the Gods will let me keep the memory of you. Of us."

His voice drifted into silence as she continued to rub his arms as if he was an agitated horse. Her quiet consideration mortified him, made him feel like some demon rising from the pits in the Seven Hells, imploring the pure-hearted maiden to save him. He sank deeper into featherbed, his hands held against his head. The aliveness of the memory of their first night together blazing like wildfire in his skull …

* * *

His skull was resting on her belly, his nostrils flaring, smelling the scent of her. She was so soft and clean that he felt a tiny twinge of reluctance to move from that spot. He had spent himself already, but his cock was as hard and as hot as a wine jug, left out, untouched, in the angry Dornish sun for hours and hours. He inched his head lower, the forefingers of his hands parting the skin, exposing her to him in a way that was both lewd and vulnerable. The light hair that tufted over her cunt shined alluringly in the candlelight, copper and chestnut and a thousand subtler tints.

His slowly pushed a finger in, stretching the veil, the tissues inside of her subtly caressing him. Oh as soft as a maiden's kiss.  _You're so pretty,_  he declared, laughing incredulously at the significance of what she was giving him. He bent his neck downwards, his tongue painting broad strokes upward, then licking the skin around the place where it began to fold. He had not known how to do this, but had often imagined it, craving for it until she filled him up to exploding. He pushed his tongue again and again into her, using his tongue in the same way he wanted to push his cock inside of her. The taste was unlike anything he had encountered before. Not unpleasant. Salty, fresh, like the damp air near the Sunset Sea.

Sansa had lain there, beneath his wet mouth. He peeked up at her, but all he could see was her arching back, her brownish-pink nipples, the smooth line of her throat like a night-blooming lily. Her face was hidden from his view but he felt the rosy warmth of the blush that was on it. She shivered convulsively but was otherwise quiet. While he had been noisy, filling the air of her bedchamber with his grunts and the wet kissy sounds of cuntlapping.

 _Let me lie with you_ , Sandor, she said after a while.

It had been difficult pushing into her, she had been as tight as a fist, her eyes wide open, the dark pupils growing big as she choked back her panic. He knew that he was hurting her, she had shrank down into her featherbed, instinctively avoiding his penetrating thrusts. He tried to console her, kissing her gently, calling her his little bird, but the consolation became passionate, his kisses harder and hungrier, his thrusts deeper and more forceful.  _Sansa ... I can't help myself ...I can't stop._  She had caressed his back, whispering  _I like it, I like it, I like it_  in a pained, shaky voice. It took a few rocking motions but at last he felt her cunt surrounding him all along his shaft, their pelvis bumping together. They had both let out an explosive breath, the rigid tension of the moment finally easing. He had moved slowly, in long, sliding, withdrawals then gentle thrusts . He kissed her lips, licked her jawline, her neck, palmed her teats.

But she seemed bewildered by the whole experience, at first quiet, unhelpful and unmoving, staring into his eyes while hardly blinking. Then she was caressing his arse and moaning as the rigidity began to flow out of her. Her moans were too exaggerated, making him inwardly recoil. He wanted to cover up her mouth with his palm, she sounded like a whore.

The moans hardly cooled his blood though, not when her cunt was embracing him so ardently, grabbing him, slippery, wet. Sliding then pulling him back. When he spilled himself on her belly, he thought that he would expire from bliss on that very spot.

He used a cloth to wipe off his mess from her belly, it was light reddish, his seed mixing with her blood. When he looked up at her, she was watching him, propping herself up on her elbows. Her expression had retained that look of bewilderedness, her eyes a little dazed.

But the smile that broke out had been happy, sincere, she seemed to be so sincerely happy that it was him and none other. That smile was was a pair of shackles, making his knees go weak. He dabbed a clean portion of cloth with his spit to wipe off the red streaks that marked those perfect female curves, that perfect female skin. He reckoned that had been the one that had been invaded and made to bleed. She had seeped into his blood and from there she would exert her absolute rule over him .  _My lady love,_  he rasped as wiped her clean, his mocking voice masking his shy surrender.

The candles had died out but she lit some more, in order to see  _his_  face, or so she claimed. He held her afterwards, stroking the exquisite skin of her naked back. He kissed and re-kissed her, bleating out words that he could hardly fathom coming out of his jaw. She giggled and kissed and petted him, bussing his knuckles as if he was her lord while chirping in that pretty voice about how marvelous and brave and strong he was. She addled his brains with her dizzy prattle.

 _Am I marvelous in bed? Did you like it?_  he asked, his damn curiosity getting the better of him. He loathed it when she performed for him, scrambling for a pleasing answer.

Her response came within a heartbeat.

_No._

_But I could._

He slept, deeply, contentedly, in a way he never slept before, not as a man, certainly not as a child. He lay in that velvet darkness until she woke him. When he opened his eyes, she hung over him, her tousled auburn hair tickling his neck. She was caressing his burned lip, pulling it down with the weight of her thumb, then smiling sheepishly when he playfully bit into it. She was dressed in a bedgown, her collarbone just peeking out from the smocking. He pulled her close to sniff her. A provocative fragrance he had never smelled before, the luscious scent of sweet sleepy girl underneath soft, clean, white, linen. She was quiet in his embrace for a moment, then she kissed his forehead and whispered,  _the maids will be here within the hour._

He flung back the blankets and noticed there was a bruise on the indentation where his waist met his hip bones. It was the size of a girl's mouth.

He grinned at her, his hands sliding up her thigh. He was itching to bed her again, to flaunt that cunt to sunlight. But she swatted his busy hands away as detachedly as a mare swats away flies with her tail.

He began to wonder if she slept at all, her eyes had been bright and alert. There was no sluggishness to her voice. Or to her movements. She helped him dress, no easy task, he had been surly and had thrown his hulking weight around. Each item of clothing that was put on made his skin crawl, it was like putting on filthy, lice-ridden rags after a warm bath.

As he was about to slink out of her bedchamber, she stopped him, one hand pulling at the sleeves of his tunic. _I love you, Sandor,_ she said solemnly. She reached on her tiptoes, her chin tilted, her mouth pursing, for a kiss.

A confusion of emotion rotated inside of him. Relief and frustration, pleasure and grief, love and rage, and a tangle of other things that he could not put a name to.

He reached down and kissed her cheeks, dryly, mannerly, as if she was an honored guest. A lady of regal distance whose benefaction he should not presume to encroach too heavily upon.

* * *

He reached up, grabbing her into his arms, when he heard her dry moaning. She sounded like some dying animal reaching for its last ounce of strength. He tried to kiss her, but she would not have it, burying her face in his chest. He could hardly understand what she was saying, the words coming out in squeaky gasps. "b-b-beg- _begging_  the Old Gods -  _Help me_ , send … sweet friend ...champion. Leaves … brushed my cheeks. I - I think - the Gods … heard my prayers … sent you to me."

He held her, rocking her back and forth, his fingers rubbing her back with the same motions he used when she was achy during her moonblood as she mumbled inconsolable.

She pushed herself away fiercely. "Sing me a song," she demanded, "sing to me that I'm your forest lass."

She was always asking for that one. That song seemed wrong now. It was about love and its lightness. He thought of a different tune, one that he had played to her long ago when the only claim he had on her was that of her sworn shield. She had heard the song from his lips on that morning they had spent hawking in the wolfswood with Shireen. He had only recently recovered from his combat wounds. It felt bloody marvelous to be outside of Winterfell, free from his cripple's bed. The air was crisp and cold, the sharp and fresh scent of wet pine needles tickling his nostrils. Shireen, bless her, had left them momentarily to chase after her peregrine. They sat astride their horses, watching as Shireen's figure disappeared into the distance. Then he looked down at Sansa and found that she was watching him.

She was so pretty that day, a single human miracle upon the eye. Snowflakes gathered lightly on her eyelashes - she blinked to dissolve them - her long lashes fluttering, as thick as the wings of a bird from the Summer Isles. Something stirred, crawled, came to life inside him.

They could hear birdsong in the forest but there were no other noises other than the cold puffs of their breathing. He broke the strained silence with a bird call, replicating the twit of the snowy owl. In the distance, far above their heads in dark branches, they heard an answering twoo, the territorial call of the male owl. Sansa laughed, charming little clouds of girlish giggles condensing in the cold morning air. That laugh, it put bad thoughts in his head. He was possessed with the absurd desire to pull her down from her horse and tickle her. Until she laughed herself to tears, until she screamed.

Sansa pulled her horse closer, as if she could read his mind, understanding what he wanted, and wanting it too. She smiled at him, rather coyly, rather encouragingly. He placed his hand on her upper arm to steady her. Just the upper arm, though his thumb nail brushed against her bosomy comeliness. Then her mouth dropped open a little and from her slightly chapped lips, came the words,  _Do you know any others?_

His mouth twitched. He made a few more calls. The common blackbird, rich and fruity. The storm cock, so loud that it could shout down the howl of a small gale. The purring of puffins, noisy, waddling birds that would nest in the honeycomb cliffs of Casterly Rock. Sansa guffawed at the last one, though there was little levity in her eyes. She looked at him with a fixed, unnerving stare. His hand remained on her arm, for balance, though he began to rub his thumb nail in the place where her breast met her armpit. Light strokes, soft but possessive.

 _Listen to this one, little bird._  He made another call, a low whistle. The melody of a song that he secretly ached to join in, but knew he would only croak. She leaned closer towards him, a flush of heat blossomed on her face, then crept down her nape into the demure high-neck collar of her riding dress. The whistle went on and on, alive with a lonely purity as it reverberated through the branches of the oak and evergreen trees. He watched with undisguised fascination her blush became violently rubescent, as if her lungs were burning.  _What bird are you calling?_  she said finally, her face wrinkling, gripping his arm hard.

 _My Lady Wife._  He had a terrible voice, croaking that could curdle milk. But Sansa, his Sansa, was laughing and crying, crying and laughing, the two emotions existing so close together that he couldn't tell which was one was about to well up next. The song seemingly drawing out doubt and fear from her in a surge, breaching those high castle walls, washing them away in an endless stream of tears that spilled from her eyes. She pulled him into her tightly, kissing the nape of his neck, calling him her lord husband in a voice that so soft and true it turned his limbs to water.

They plighted their troth that night, holding hands as they sat on her weirwood tree bed. No septons, no cloaks, and no formalities. A private faith for a private love. A part of him thought it was pure shit, dreams spun as delicate as glass, words spoken as if they could live on them as meat and bread. But how fervent was her sincerity, she seemed to think the whole make-believe was real. He had been just as thickheaded, taking a flower from a vase, picking off stem of blue rosebuds and placing it behind her ear. A virgin's blossoms to adorn his bride. She used the ribbon of her shift to bind their hands to one another as they spoke their vows made to those nameless, nonexistent, gods of the trees. He pledged to her his flesh and heart and soul and all his worldly goods.

Which consisted of a horse and a suit of armor. Yet grinned triumphantly when he entered her to seal their union. She stayed crying. Crying and then more ugly crying. It incited his twisted sense of humor. He had always known that his wedding night would be spent lying on top of some crying, puffy-eyed girl. But her arms were clean and tender, her moans unfeigned, her cunt pulsing, little kisses all along his shaft. His weepy wife dying the little death in voluptuous agony.

* * *

The other ceremony, the one in front of witnesses, took place three months after Arya had left with Daenerys and Aegon. It would have been stupid to do otherwise. She was the sister of kings, and was to have been the bride of kings. She might as well have fallen in love with a begging brother in undyed brown robes or a money-grubbing merchant, or a shitstained swineherd, as with a man of his humble and obscure house. He should have felt some remote contempt for the pretense, but didn't. The prospect of Sansa's name attached to  _impropriety_ , to looks and whispers, tormented him. So he waited, standing with a stony stare at his bride's side as the days marched by in slow time.

The weather was miserable the day of their wedding. Grey and wet and so cold he could see his own breath curl in the air as he spoke his vows standing on the sodden ground. Of course, the weeks prior had been marvelous, the miracle of spring coming to Winterfell at last. The birds sang, the softer rain fell, the abundant jonquil lifted their yellow heads. Then just his buggering luck. Their wedding approached and the sun disappeared for days, like some absent-minded old fart, too busy with some other world to bother with this one.

He had wanted to marry in the candlelit sept, in front of the Seven. The morning light shining through the windows, spreading colored radiance over those blue eyes, those auburn tresses and that face that was too lovely for any woman on earth. Sansa had agreed readily enough, was she ever agreeable in all things since that night. He did not pursue the matter to its end though, yielding his wish to her welfare. Their marriage would cause offense enough. Her brother invited none of his bannermen. Spent his evenings drinking the world's best wine down as if it was piss, mournfully staring at the dregs in his golden cup, as grim as the carved face of an Old God.

So they said their vows again under the giant hearttree, their wet robes clinging to their skins, in front of the tree-worshiping commons. Not one face in ten had been glad. His own face must have been frightful looking, the cold rain slipping off his thick brows and dewing on his eyelashes, his mouth twitching anxiously. He could hardly fathom that this fantastical moment had come to pass. He placed his cloak around her, brusquely kissing her cheek. He said his words as if declaring a threat:  _One flesh, One heart, One soul, now and forever and cursed be the one who comes between us,_ half expecting the Seven Hells to crack open from the black pool and rise up between them. All his pathetic fucking hopes for the future collapsing into smoke and ruin.

Then Sansa cupped his cheek. She looked at him,  _those eyes_ , absolute sweetness and absolute gravity, the candlelight of a sept seemingly swimming in them. He had never seen her so happy,  _elated_ , her vulnerability near beyond bearing. She looked at him as dog looks at its master, bred for devotion, her love bordering on servile adoration. It made him laugh, he barked a odd chortle, a laugh close to a grateful sob, unable to control himself. He blinked several times, as if removing mental tears.

Behind her, he caught sight of King Brandon's face, serenely appalled. He grinned at his brother. He had Sansa and compared to that gift, all the gold in Casterly Rock was as dust, the affections of strangers nothing, lint from his belly button.

* * *

"Are you going to bring that everywhere?" Sansa teased. They were taking an after supper stroll, in the godswoods. Here where she was protected by high walls and hundreds of men, he had no  _need_  to openly carry Black Dog in a long scabbard.

The scabbard was black lacquer, the lower length of the sheath banded by golden openwork of blades of grass, inlaid with three dogs made out of dragonglass.  _It's beautiful,_ he had said quietly when King Brandon bestowed it upon him during the wedding feast. Sansa had told him that her father's greatsword Ice could not be reforged from the Lannister longswords. It was if magic was a vein that had been mined out. The spells used to work Valryian steel no longer had any power. While Longclaw had been given to the Lady of Bear Island, Sandor had presumed Widow's Wail and Oathkeeper would be always remain in the possession of the Kings of Winter.

He was the grandson of a kennelmaster, only in Sandor's wildest fantasies did he ever imagine...

As a boy, he had squired for Gerion Lannister, a brave fool, lost to the tides. Gerion had sailed on a quest to find the lost ancestral Lannister sword Brightroar and was never seen again. That this piece of Ice should go to him and his mongrel heirs was a princely generosity Sandor had not expected. No doubt Sansa's machinations had something to do with it.  _I don't deserve this,_ he had said, pulling the longsword from its sheath, admiring the red and black ripples of the blade. His hands tightened possessively around the golden hilt with its pommel in the shape of snarling dog's head.  _But I'm going to relish every moment of owning it._

Those words were true of things as well. King Brandon made a wry face and Sandor heard his wolf growl a warning in the background. That mangy animal hated him, baring its teeth whenever he was in its presence. A lifetime ago, Sandor had offered to kill the direwolf because its mournful howling was disturbing Joffrey's sleep. Summer seemingly _knew_  and held a grudge and whether its emotions fed Brandon's or Brandon's fed it, Sandor could not say. Anger had risen deep in Sandor's blood, but he said his thank yous with all the scrapping subservience he could muster.

Her family would have nothing to reproach him for, he was going to make sure her life was exactly as it should be. Nothing was ever going to hurt her or frighten her or really make her cry. He wanted everything to be perfect for Sansa. He wanted to be perfect for her, which gave every moment a pinch of dread.

"Are you happy Sansa? Are you content?"

"Oh, I don't know where one ends and the other begins!" she said, her hand clutching his tightly.

"Do you remember the first time you spoke to me? On the Kingsroad?  _The Starks use direwolves for wet nurses,_ you said with your drawn sword in your hand. I think you meant to frighten me a little. So much has happened, all that struggle and strife and striving compressed into a few short years. I cannot claim to be any cleverer, but I must be wiser by now. Would you know yourself if you saw yourself coming across the road as you were then? Would I? I doubt it. But something, something essential has to remain. Do you remember that time you told me my father -"

"Speak louder," Sandor said, "Arya can barely hear you in King's Landing." She was prattling on and on and he was too ashamed to hear what could have follow next. She had been a bruisable, fatherless child. 

_Do you remember the dance he did when his head came off his shoulders?_ "I should have never said those things to you," he mumbled. "What would Eddard Stark say if he knew you'd end up with Joffrey's Dog? That the mighty Stark line, eight thousand years old, fouled by the butcher - "

"The Stark line was fouled before you ever came along. Haven't I sung to you  _The Blue Rose of Winterfell_? All the living Starks are descended from the female line, from the bastard son of that savage, Bael the Bard, and the daughter of a Lord of Winterfell."

"As to that other nonsense...my father gave as much credit to a man's end as well as his beginning," she said, a little coldly. The little bird had disappeared and the Lady was grumbling, "Such heavy thoughts, _Brother_  Sandor."

Her hands tightened on his biceps, then she gave him a push. The motion made her stumble and he grabbed her waist to steady her. He gave her a reproving look which made her dissolve into giggles. "You're going to be  _sorry_  to fatigue me with your gravity."

His fingers moved from her waist to over her stomach. Sansa was only a little pregnant, the womb was up, the tiniest little bump raising up out of her pelvis.  _You potent old_ dog _, you,_ Grenn had said, thumping him on the back with thwacks hard enough to sting.  _With a beginning like this, you'll be knee deep in big, ugly, children in no time._

 _Arya will name her boy Jon after Jon Connington and our brother. If we have a son, could we name him Robb? Jon and Robb. Cousins as close as brothers._  She had looked at him a little anxiously, turning her head on the pillow. He curled a lock of her hair around his finger and said she could name their son anything she wished, even Florian, if it pleased her. A litany of names followed:  _Robb, Catelyn, Eddard, Nan, Brandon, Joanna …_ She expected to bear a child every two years, as her mother had done. He listened and chewed the inside of his cheek. In the dark recesses of Sandor's brain, he heard the ceaseless bawling of babies, the sniffling of the runny noses of stumbling brats waiting to be born. He slept notably well that night.

"Will you love me as well tomorrow as you did last night? I'm going to get so fat that I'll waddle instead of walk. Will you still want me when I'm old and have whiskers underneath my chin and all my teeth fall out?" she said affectedly modest, hand on her belly, where his child was inside of her.

Always fishing for compliments when she had enough beauty to illuminate the crypts of Winterfell.

He turned to embrace her, peering at the velvet curve of her upturned face. The pregnancy gave her more color, the faint pink of her cheeks, the luster of her hair, unbraided, unbound in the Northern style. Her arms reach up to cup the side of his face, where the flesh was burned and as hard as leather. She reached on her tiptoes, her chin tilted, her mouth pursing, for a kiss.

He pinched the area underneath her upper arm, where the skin was toned and youth-soft smooth. "Before I die, I'm going to spurt all over your fat, warty, crone's arm," he said soberly.

It was not the compliment she had hoped for. Sansa wrinkled her face at him, twisting as he held her tight in his grasp. "Let me go. Let go!"

He couldn't discern exactly she said next - _awful, Sandor, disgusting_ , _you something -_  his laughter drowning out her feeble cries.

He squeezed her even harder, remembering the day before the battle of Blackwater. The city had been smoky with fire, and he felt his death nearer than ever before. He had been following her, his little bird, his true lady, who made the fear and boredom a little more bearable. He had been haunted by the premonition of his death, his mind plagued by the dark terror of dying on his knees engulfed by a flood of flames. He seen her stumble on the turnpike stairs and reached out to steady her. _Let me go,_ she cried. Instead he pulled her up against him, into him. How  _good_  it had felt to hold her. _What will you do when he crosses?_ , she had said.  _Fight. Kill. Die, maybe._

To just hold her. Even when she was twisting in his embrace like a fish on a hook. Her body was so velvety, pressing along his in secret paths and curves."There's nothing awful about that. We'll still be married! To each other, no less!" he rasped in her ear.

"You're nasty," she whined like a scandalized septa.

He gripped her elbows and firmly pushed her forward, away from him. She turned and ran off, all affronted maidenly indignation.

She didn't run away very far after she realized that he wasn't going to chase after her. Let her wait for him for a change. He had been waiting on her, waiting for her, for what seemed like a lifetime.

He fell behind her, his pace slow. He wanted just to watch her walk, to see her as a stranger might see her. A soldier with only a sword and a horse, wandering in from the cold in search of shelter. What a heavenly vision was the Lady of Winterfell, the neat straight line of her back curving into that pert, round, arse. And the face, as pretty as a prayer book, the eyes as bright as the quiet stars, surreptitiously peeking over her shoulder to see how far was the distance between them.

The Lady started singing, a song meant to break the soldier's heart into bloom.

_The northman's daughter was as fair as the sun,_

_and her kisses were warmer than spring..._

In his loneliness, he sings too, but only in his head where his cindered voice doesn't sound so bad. He loses the words and notes along the way but he stays with her, sure of the refrain.

_Brothers, oh brothers, my days are here done,_

_from the northman's bite my blood runs like red water_

_But what does it matter, for all men must die,_

_and I've tasted the northman's daughter!_

The Lady of Winterfell stopped walking suddenly and turns around. His lady wife, bright and unblemished, with a smile that made up for all the solitary days.

"Come here," Sansa said. "Walk beside me. Take my hand."

His long stride longer than ever, Sandor Clegane did as he was told.

**THE END**


	18. Chapter 18

_  
_From the last section of the last chapter of The Northman's Daughter:

_He turned to embrace her, peering at the velvet curve of her upturned face. The pregnancy gave her more color, the faint pink of her cheeks, the luster of her hair, unbraided, unbound in the Northern style. Her arms reach up to cup the side of his face, where the flesh was burned and as hard as leather. She reached on her tiptoes, her chin tilted, her mouth pursing, for a kiss._

__


End file.
